


Fallen and Wanting

by Farawayland



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Dark Captain Hook | Killian Jones, F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-13
Updated: 2016-01-14
Packaged: 2018-05-13 18:38:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 37,132
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5712895
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Farawayland/pseuds/Farawayland
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A curse, a prophecy—and a magic bean that changes everything. When a young Emma finds herself stranded in the ruins of the Enchanted Forest, where will she go, and who will she become? Is there such a thing as Fate after all, or is Destiny the future you choose for yourself? AU, Canon Divergence - Rated M for future chapters.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Emma bit back a sharp cry as her teeth clashed together painfully, the casserole dish in her hands dropping solidly onto the floor, peas and carrots rolling every which way. She whipped quickly around, shooting a venomous glare at the larger boy who had gone out of his way to bump into her as he walked by. She stepped quickly toward him, feeling an anger pooling in her stomach that made her fingers twitch. In that moment, nothing would have made her happier than to plant her knuckles squarely in his face.

"Emma, what happened to the peas?"

The voice was gently admonishing, the woman's blonde eyebrow arched curiously as she took in the mosaic of vegetables spread across the dining room floor.

"I'm sorry, Ingrid. I tripped. I didn't mean to spill them," Emma hurried, suddenly terrified that after only a few days in the new group home, she was already cast as the troubled kid.

"Don't worry about it, Emma, just go grab a dustpan and help clean up. Kevin, did you get the napkins like I asked?"

"Yup, sure did," Kevin answered, then turned to Emma. "Do you want me to help you, Em?"

"No thanks," she managed to grate out, refusing to look at the oversized delinquent who was currently tormenting her and getting away with it. "And it's, Emma."

She heard Ingrid's footsteps move back toward the kitchen and shot Kevin the nastiest look she could muster. It had been two weeks, and while Ingrid and the other kids seemed nice, Kevin was a complete ass. Unfortunately, Kevin had been with Ingrid the longest, and seemed to be her favorite. Foster parents always tried to make you believe they adored and cared for each of their misfit kids in the same way, but Emma knew differently, and because of that, she also knew there was a fast approaching expiration date for her stay. Kevin's taunts and bullying were quickly becoming unbearable, and there wasn't a shred of proof, at least not in her history, that anyone was going to do anything about it. Like always, it was going to be up to Emma to take care of herself.

It was several hours after dinner that Emma found herself in Ingrid's room. She hadn't intended on intruding, but the door had been unlocked, and Emma had a natural curiosity about the inner mind of these people who collected stray kids, like her. Luck would also have it that Ingrid had stepped out to pick up one of the other kids from their volunteer work, thirty minutes away. Glancing both directions down the hall and seeing no one, Emma carefully eased through the cracked doorway, making careful note of how open it had been to start. The bedroom was cast in a low light from the streetlamp outside, and Emma could easily make out a modest bed centered on the far wall, flanked by matching nightstands. A digital clock and glass of water rested on one nightstand while the other sat empty. The walls were white, and devoid of any art or photos. Overall, the room was much more sterile than she had expected, given how Ingrid adorned the rest of the house with all sorts of junk. She had stepped only a few feet in, and turning to leave, she came face to face with herself.

A large, ornate mirror hung over a plain wood dresser, framing her surprised face, lips slightly open and green eyes wide. Glancing down, she noticed that below the mirror, centered on the dresser, sat an equally ornate jewelry box. It seemed odd that a woman who kept her bedroom so simple and clean would have such a fancy thing to hold jewelry, especially considering Emma didn't remember Ingrid wearing any. A tingle of curiosity started at her fingertips, as it always did, and she found herself gliding her hands over the smooth silver and gold finish of the box, gently prying open tiny drawers that held buttons, and pins, and bits of paper. Curiously, no jewelry. Emma was about to leave when her fingers passed over an odd crease on the back of the box. Craning her neck to view the back, it looked perfectly smooth, but feeling again, there it was, a slight hitch in the finish no more than the width of a fingernail. Not hopeful of any success, she pushed against the seam and felt the release of coiled tension, a tiny drawer springing outward against her finger. She couldn't help the one-sided smile that appeared on her face. She was always pleased when her natural curiosity was rewarded.

Reaching the tip of her finger into the minuscule drawer, she felt something small and slightly warm. Tipping it out and into her hand, she got her first good look at what Ingrid had tried to hide so well. Confusion settled across her features as she studied the small curiosity nestled in her palm. It looked like…well, a bean. She rocked her palm back and forth slightly, the bean rolling to and fro, casting light like a prism in her hand. Small flecks of red, gold, and blue glinted beneath its surface. It couldn't possibly be a bean, because beans did  _not_  do that, at least none that Emma had seen. Perhaps it was a gem of some kind, just cut to an odd shape. Maybe it was worth something.

Feeling a strange sense of desire come over her, Emma pocketed the trinket.

* * *

 

Emma was cold. It wasn't a new feeling, but it was sharp and heightened with every panicked breath of freezing air she gulped down. Her sneakers hit the ground heavily, spraying gravel as she ran through the narrow lanes of the storage facility. The muscles in her legs seized painfully with each step, threatening to cramp and betray her as she fled. She could hear the garbled white noise of a radio in the distance, and knew that they would catch her soon if she didn't find a way out. It had been just her luck, however, that the area she ran into, hoping for an escape, was encircled by a fence.

She could feel the panic crowding her chest, pushing against her lungs and making it difficult to breath. Her thoughts flickered between memories from the past week, the classic Emma Swan story. She had been in and out of group homes, and running away from police more times than she could count, but if they caught her this time, it would be different. She was sixteen, and the courts aren't as forgiving when it comes to sixteen year old degenerates as they are with twelve year olds. If those cops caught her, she was going to be in a heap of shit.

Her mind flashed back to Kevin, and she knew if he were here right now, she would smash his teeth in, and then maybe finish him off with a good kick to the nuts. This was all his fault. She just wanted to fly under the radar and not make trouble, but from day one he'd had other plans, and if there was a moment Ingrid wasn't watching, he was tormenting her. Well, she was done with it. Being in a group home with heat, and food, and TV wasn't worth it if she had to put up with being picked on every day. The camera was the last straw. She'd even asked for it back nicely, but because Ingrid was out at the store, he knew he had time to torture her a little longer. Scratching his face, well, that had been an accident. If he hadn't been dangling it up above his head, he wouldn't have ended up getting caught by her nails when she jumped to get it. Kevin had been so happy to point out, however, that Ingrid wouldn't see it that way, not when he had a nicely packaged lie all ready to go. He'd really lost it then, screaming that she'd attacked him and he was going to call the police. She'd panicked, and maybe it wasn't the smartest thing, but she ran.

So here she was, stuck for it, chest heaving in a maze of storage units, trying desperately to see a way out of her situation. The sounds of heavy footsteps and radio chatter grew louder, slicing easily through the thin, cool air. Emma had never been so panicked in her entire life. Suddenly everything— the parade of foster parents, the nights spent in bus stops, the constant feeling of abandonment—it was all too much. She could wait for those cops to find her and hope for the best, or she could run. It didn't matter if they put her in jail, or another group home, there would always be those people like Kevin trying to stomp her down and make her feel miserable. She wasn't going to let it happen.

It was the crunching of gravel in the next aisle over that triggered her flight response, sneakers kicking up stones as she skidded around the corner and ran. Her heart beat wildly in her chest, blonde hair streaming behind her as she disappeared down another lane between units. She knew they were only minutes away from finding her, and still, she only saw fence.

 _Come on, please_ , she begged _. I need a way out of here. I have to get away from here, away from this place, please, please. I need a way out. I need a way out._

She didn't see what she hit, but she felt pain lance up her toes as she stumbled forward, her arms spinning wildly as she fought to balance herself and keep moving—and then it all happened so very slowly. She saw something arcing through the air towards the ground, glistening and shining with some sort of inner light. She had forgotten completely about the strange object she'd stolen from Ingrid and tucked into her shirt pocket, the same shirt she was wearing now. Her heart seemed to slow to the point of silence as she watched the bean hit the gravel and bounce. Once, twice—and then everything exploded.

A wall of air shot outward, passing easily over Emma, but setting her skin on fire with sensation, a rapid tingling that danced on the edge of every nerve in her body. Her green eyes widened with a mix of fear and wonder as the ground opened up before her, gravel disappearing into a swirling vortex or color and flashing light. There was a part of her that was still keenly aware of the cops heading toward her, perhaps ready to turn the corner at any moment. Her brain was telling her to back up, that there was nothing those cops could do that would be worse than the twisting abyss before her, but it was her heart that won out.

It's slow, steady beating seemed to pulse in time with the strange vortex in front of her, urging her closer, and before she could stop herself, she jumped.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Thank you for reading! Forewarning- it will be a few chapters before our favorite Captain makes an appearance, but they are complete and simply awaiting an upload when I have more than a few moments snatched before work. Updates will follow quickly (especially seeing as this was more of an introductory chapter). As always, reviews and critiques are more than welcome.
> 
> (I am currently in the midst of adding my fanfics to AO3, but in the meantime an up-to-date archive of my work can be found on FanFiction under the same pen name if you simply cannot wait, though if you only review on AO3, I would of course love to hear your thoughts on here.)
> 
> -Fara


	2. Chapter 2

There was grass in her mouth. It was the first conscious thought that came to Emma as she lay face down on the ground, and then, slowly, other thoughts began to return. The cops yelling for her to stop. The pain in her chest as she sucked in air greedily. The sound of her panicked breathing seeming to echo off the units like some strange drum. The feeling of air rushing past her face as she fell into something shifting and endless.

She bolted upright, unfazed by the lingering pain in her legs and chest. Green eyes widened as she turned in place, hands hanging disbelieving at her sides as she took in the view of swaying grass bordered by a distant line of trees. No storage units, and no cops in sight. She couldn't stop the laughter that bubbled out of her throat, nor could she stop it from turning into a slightly more frightened version of itself a few moments later. Where the hell was she? Had she stepped into some kind of portal, or time-warp? Her eyes darted skyward, suddenly curious if there was a lingering, swirling vortex of light hovering above her that she hadn't yet noticed, but the sky was blue and empty and beautiful.

She walked forward slowly, aiming for the tree line in the distance. There was an undercurrent of fear running through her mind, and though she didn't want to overly acknowledge it, it did seem like a good idea to get out of the open. She focused on that single thought, getting to the trees, letting it crowd out any other considerations trying to nudge forward. When she got to the trees, then she would move onto the next thought.

It went like that for some time, first the tree line, then the farther tree, and then the tree beyond that. There was nothing but trees, and dirt, and rocks and twigs for as far as she could see. Maybe she should have stayed in the goddamn meadow. Plopping down at the base of yet another tree, Emma dropped her head into her hands and wondered what the hell she had gotten herself into. She'd run away from the group home (not completely out of the ordinary for her, she'd admit), fled from cops (it's been done once or twice), and jumped into a mysterious portal that a glowing bean opened (that was a new one). A trill of fear raced up her spine, and alongside it, a tingle of excitement. She had no idea where she was, but she did know that there was no Kevin, and  _that_  was fantastic. She got up, brushing her jeans off, and was immediately made aware of how hungry she was as her stomach rumbled loudly. Great. Well, seeing as there weren't any giant portals looming nearby, it didn't seem that there was anything to be done for it other than to keep moving and hope she found a town, or some food. She stamped down the wave of doubt that welled up in her mind. This place didn't look so bad. It couldn't be worse than home.

After several more hours of trudging through the forest, Emma found herself breaking through the trees into occasional pockets of open sky and wildflowers, the trees above her loosening their canopy to allow passage of fresh air and daylight. Taking a moment to revel in the feel of the sun warming her skin, she pressed her back into the wildflower strewn grass, giving her aching legs a much needed rest.

When she opened her eyes, it was growing dark, and she shot upwards full of nervous energy. She hadn't meant to fall asleep. Her body had definitely needed the rest, but she had been hoping to find a town, or farm, or  _something_  before night fell. It wasn't that Emma hadn't spent plenty of nights alone, unsure of where or what her next step would be- she was familiar with that queasy feeling of uncertainty. It was the fact that her body, far better rested than before, had noticed a change in her surroundings. Whether it was the coming dusk, she didn't know, but the meadow was still, where before there had been songbirds flitting among the grasses, pulling seeds from the bowed heads. The treetops had been rife with the scampering of squirrels as they leaped from branch to branch. Now, everything was silent, and even the air seemed to hold in it a dead weight. Heart pounding, Emma hurried to the other side of the small clearing, hoping the cover of the sturdy trees would clear her mind.

She had no sooner reached the tree then a great commotion began in the distance. Looking back beyond the clearing, the canopy of the trees seemed to heave, as if a giant hand had gathered them like a bouquet of flowers and was trying to rip them from the ground. Emma's face tensed with fear, watching as the disturbance slowly came nearer, leaving the faint shuddering of branches behind. She knew that whatever it was, she needed to leave, needed to get as far away as possible, but her legs were frozen, and her eyes were fixated on the darkening clearing. Her sense of self-preservation finally came back to her, but with just enough time for concealment behind a large tree trunk, her eyes peering cautiously around its edge. Whatever was making its way through the forest had finally reached the small clearing, and Emma watched as trunks and branches strained against something large pushing through the tightly knit forest.

Emma could hear her heart drop into her stomach, and her fingers dug tightly into bark. She knew, suddenly, without any doubt, that wherever she was, it was far from Minnesota. Lumbering into the clearing was something akin to a human, if only because it walked upright and two massive arms hung at its sides, but that is where the similarities ended. The beast was enormous, easily four times the height of Emma, and its skin was the dusty grey of something left to mildew. It wore some sort of leather loincloth about its waist, and as it stepped into the clearing, Emma heard the rattle of bones clattering about its thighs. A wave of crippling nausea came over her, and she had never felt the need to run so greatly in her entire life. Her feet, however, may as well have been stone. Her breathing had slowed instinctively, as if her body knew, even if her brain didn't, that silence was paramount. She counted her breaths as the great beast shambled into the clearing, easily lifting its barrel-like legs, only to drop them with a shuddering crash. The sickening thought came to mind that only moments before, she had been lying where that thing now stood. Definitely not Minnesota anymore.

The beast seemed disinclined to choose a direction, as if it were confused by the small pocket of meadow in the woods, and it merely swung its head widely, casting about for an incentive that would drive it forward. Emma held her breath as she watched its corded neck swivel in her direction, knowing that in seconds she would be getting a detailed look at the face of a monster. It was only a quick impression, because Emma's feet, under some directive other than her own, had started to run—the brief flash of clouded over, white eyes and a reptilian, flattened nose spurring her onward. It was the teeth, however, that were caught in her mind's eye, yellow and wicked, they angled wildly up from red gums, the hot breath of the beast passing easily between them.

Emma couldn't hear her heart anymore, for everything had been drowned out by the deafening roar of whatever stood behind her in the clearing, and even as her feet fairly flew over the root covered ground, she knew that she had no chance of outrunning it. Her thoughts flashed briefly back to Minnesota, to Massachusetts, to all of the states and families before that—to that first family that had adopted her and given her a name, only to abandon her—and Emma realized, she would die without ever having found a home. Suddenly, something latched onto her shirt, yanking her roughly to the side, and before she could even focus or think, a gloved hand was clasped painfully against her mouth, and the clammy warmth of someone's breath was at her ear.

"If you value your life," it hissed, barely audible, "hold your tongue."

While Emma didn't much enjoy being told what to do, she valued her life quite highly, and was silent, her eyes frantically watching from over the top of a large outcropping she had been pulled behind. Whoever this person was, the more immediate concern was most certainly the monster barreling through the trees.

At that moment, the beast burst into view, the cracking of branches and falling debris stilling as it stopped and swiveled its head from side to side, punctuating the motion with less thunderous, but still terrifying, grunts that emanated from its chest.

Emma felt the hand tighten on her face, but for once she was content to keep her mouth shut. After several tense moments in which her captor barely seemed to breath, the monster lurched forward, its massive body making its way in the opposite direction of her hiding place. Neither the gloved hand on her mouth, nor the arm wrapped around her torso loosened until the disturbance to the forest was so far away that it could barely be seen.

Once she had her freedom, Emma whirled around, only to find that whoever had seized her was already out of arms reach, far quicker than she was. They had not, however, deserted her, and for that, Emma was grateful. She wasn't one to lean on others for help, but Emma was still trying to process what she had just seen, and was terrified of doing it alone. At the heart of the matter, she was still a sixteen year old, and she was frightened. Perhaps this person had answers for her.

"Who are you?"

The voice was high and lilting, the voice of a girl. Squinting her eyes in the vanishing light, Emma thought she could just make out a cascade of curls beneath the drape of the concealing hood. The girl's face, however, stayed bowed in shadow.

"My name is Emma." She found her voice was thick and coarse, laden with fear and unease.

The girl stepped forward quickly, her cloak and simple, woven clothing barely whispering against each other as her fingers tangled in the base of Emma's plaid shirt.

"Why are clothed so?"

Emma fought the urge to pull away from someone touching her, concentrating on the fact that this was the first, and only, person she had seen since falling through that portal. The girl was waiting for an answer, fingers tightening ever so perceptibly on the thin fabric. Emma didn't know what was the best course of action, lying, when she was obviously not from this place, or telling the truth and being thought crazy, or something worse. Instead, she settled on something in between, avoiding mention of the portal all together.

"I'm not sure. I went to sleep, and then I woke up here, in this strange place."

"Hmm," the girl thought, her fingers dropping as she finally raised her chin. "Perhaps you are a dream walker, and I shall find that you vanish into nothing when you wake."

"As far as I know, I'm not that talented," Emma muttered, studying the girl's face now that it was easily seen.

She had been right about the hair. Chestnut brown ringlets tumbled down to her neck, framing narrow and dainty features. Her lips were pressed into an uncertain line, but her brown eyes seemed gentle enough.

"Who are you?" Emma asked.

The girl tilted her head to the side and ignored the question, instead circling Emma as a wolf would its prey. Emma could hear only the barest of a disturbance as she set each foot against the ground. When she made her way back to facing Emma, her face was less wary, and she had shifted her hood to lie against her back.

"You may call me, Columbine."

* * *

 

**~Five Years Later~**

Perspiration dotted Emma's brow as she clung to the jagged, broken branches of the pine, every muscle in her body screaming as she fought against the urge to drop back to the ground and relieve her aching arms. Ahead, in the center of the road, she could see the prone body, cloak pooled around it, as if the person had collapsed from exhaustion. Emma closed her eyes, focusing on the gentle whisper of the wind twisting through the upper branches of the trees, the small bursts of birdsong from the brush. She listened, waiting for the tell-tale rattle of wagon wheels against the ill-used, flooded path. Even though it had only been minutes, to her body it felt as if she had been clinging to the side of the ancient pine for hours, her feet resting on the barest hints of broken branches. Columbine was always pushing her to be faster, stronger, sharper, so she clung stubbornly, waiting.

It wasn't long before a sigh of relief escaped Emma's lips as she heard the cargo wagon approaching from the distance. Stilling her body as best she could, she made the mad, tittering call of a catbird, alerting Columbine, though she was sure the girl would have already heard the wheels herself. Her cloak, a mottled brown, blended seamlessly with the trunk of the knotty pine, her blonde curls plaited neatly back against her head and tucked beneath its hood for concealment. Her eyes cast downward, she watched as the wagon drew closer, its laden bed eventually coming to a stop below her perch as the coachman eased back on the reins, bringing the two horses to a stop.

"Hey then, Delly," he called out to the man perched on the rear of the wagon, his purpose on the jaunt to watch for anyone approaching from behind. "You see that'n ahead in the path?"

The man in the back, younger than the greying coachman, turned his dark head to the forest road, taking in the still form that hadn't moved, save for the whisper of wind passing over its cloak. He dropped down to the ground and moved to stand next to the elderly man, his hand on the worn hilt of a sword.

"S'pose I should see what's about it, then." He said plainly, his hand still fingering the hilt of his weapon absentmindedly. Emma sensed that this man, while not a hardened warrior, was skilled enough with the blade. She was suddenly very glad to be the one perched in the tree. The one area in which Columbine far surpassed Emma was close range grappling, which was why she always played the bait and trigger, with Emma ready to see to any lose threads. She watched as the young man walked down the path ahead of the wagon, his eyes focused on the unconscious form.

"May be jus't'nother too late to the camp," the coachman called out, settling back against the hard wood of the backrest. "Perhaps not dead, just needing some food and water."

"Could be that," the other murmured, approaching Columbine slowly and warily, ever alert. His legs were tensed to leap backward as he reached down and rolled the body in the road, but the tautness left him when he saw the thin face of a young girl, a darkening bruise on her cheek. Taking his hand from the sword, he leaned closer, his ear coming to rest against her chest, searching for a heartbeat, so still was her breathing.

Emma grunted with a mixture of relief and pain as she dropped from the tree, her muscles screaming at the sudden activity, and yet lightened by the movement. Her feet landed neatly on the back of the wagon, and before the elderly man could even turn completely to see what had made the load suddenly shift, there was the icy hardness of steel at his throat, and a whispered voice in his ear.

"Move and you're dead, old man."

Emma wasn't going to slit his throat, of course. She didn't think she could bring herself to harm someone so drastically, though once or twice she had been forced to rap the hilt of her dagger smartly against a head or two, but he didn't know that, and if there was one thing Emma had learned perfectly from Columbine, it was how to appear more deadly than she was.

With her dagger pressed neatly against the coachman's tender throat, her eyes watched as Columbine's knife found a pulsing vein of its own to menace. The younger man had stilled immediately, his sword yanked from its sheath before he even realized what had happened and tossed aside. Emma was glad he didn't need more motivation to behave; Columbine was known to give it. Knife still pressed against his jugular, Columbine retrieved a heavy rock she had been laying on, and raising it swiftly, knocked it against his skull. The man dropped like a sack of flour, crumpled in the road.

Emma pressed her knife a little more firmly into the soft, tender skin on his neck as the coachman tried to twist out of her grip. Her hold on his hair, however, was unyielding, and he settled in defeat.

"What did I tell you, old man?" she hissed, hating the small seed of guilt in her stomach. "Move and die."

Columbine approached the wagon cheerfully, the young man's sword swinging in her fingertips.

"Well, Swan, what do you say I procure us some rations—girl's gotta eat" she quipped, eyeing the coachman merrily. "And we'll be on our happy way."

"My son," he moaned, his voice catching in his throat. "You killed my boy."

"I didn't, he's alive and well." Columbine paused, leaning close and tucking a finger beneath the man's jaw, "but if I had killed him, I'd have done you a favor, old man. Family is  _weakness_."

Emma made sure her grip remained firm as Columbine rifled through the wagon, choosing whatever she deemed acceptable and loading it into two large rucksacks stashed beneath a pile of leaves off the wagon path. Once, on one of their first joint ventures, she had let her hold on a mark loosen, a choice that had almost ended with the both of them dead. She never made the same mistake again. If there was one thing Columbine had reinforced early, and often, it was that the Enchanted Forest was a dangerous place, and Ogres were not their only troubles.

Once Columbine was ready, a heavy pack against her shoulders and the other waiting for Emma, she quickly rolled backwards off the wagon, her dagger leaving nary but a sore impression on the man's neck. By the time he had risen unsteadily from his seat and looked behind him, they were far gone.

* * *

 

Emma's heart was light and free as they ran through the forest, cloaks billowing behind them as their feet kept to a path only they knew, dodging nimbly over root and rock. They preferred to rob refugee settlements and supply wagons farther afield, and so the trip home was generally a long one. Emma's arms and legs were sore from perching cramped in the tree, and her body was weary from the early trip out to the deserted carriage road, but she had never felt freer. Their life was difficult, of course, but as Columbine had taught her in the early days, life was difficult for everyone in the Enchanted Forest now, which was why they needed to worry about themselves, first and foremost.

It was around their fire later that night as they relished in a successful foray, their hunger finally sated, that Emma turned to Columbine with curiosity.

"In all the years I've known you Columbine, you've never once mentioned family."

It wasn't a subject that Emma ever brought up either, having no family to actually speak of, and so hearing Columbine's pointed observation on the matter earlier in the day, she was intrigued.

The brunette pulled her eyes away from the dancing flames to look at her friend, her eyes full of something hard and sorrowful. Emma had seen Columbine play the wounded woman, but never before had she actually seen true hurt in her friend's eyes. It brought a stark contrast to the person Emma knew, the girl that had grown beside her, teaching her how to survive on her own in a dangerous land.

"Would you like to hear a story, Emma?" She asked lightly, removing a chicken bone from the stones to pick at her nails.

Emma didn't say anything, she merely waited, knowing that no matter her answer, Columbine would do as she pleased. She answered to no one. Eventually, after a good deal of silent ruminating while Emma leaned back and closed her eyes, Columbine began her tale.

"I was once a poor servant girl, traveling through the wood with the family of my master and mistress. Once we reached the center of the forest, we were put upon by a band of robbers. They had seen the rich carriage earlier on, and had staged an attack. They murdered every single person there," Columbine whispered, her voice oddly conspiratorial. "Every single person, Emma, except for me. Do you know why?"

"I'm not sure. Were you in league with them?"

"Ah, no, though watching them did gift me with a sense of freedom. They didn't kill me because I hid behind a tree, quiet as a mouse, while they slaughtered the family."

Columbine leaned forward, tossing the bone back among the stones and using a stick to prod the waning flames back to life. Emma stretched her legs out alongside the fire, her eyes heavy with sleep, her mind turning over the words of the story in her mind, searching for the connection.

"An interesting tale, Columbine, but what does it have to do with family?"

"You see, I may have been a servant in the household of the noble family, but before that I was a beloved daughter."

The word  _beloved_  fell from her lips as if it was poison, and Emma could see the tension in her knuckles as she twisted the edges of her cloak.

"Except, as loved as I was by my parents, they did not love me enough to keep me from the hands of our local Lord. When he was to take their farm, they offered me up as a servant, as if they were offering up a prized hound. The Lord found it a fair trade, and from that day on I was not allowed to stray from his side. This was unjust, Emma, but fate can be even crueler than you can imagine. For the master and mistress were dark and vicious, and my life beneath them was no life at all."

She paused, staring back into the flames as if watching the massacre all over again. "It made my heart sing to hear them fall."

Emma felt a cold chill creep up her spine at the words, her thoughts unsettled and turning back to a time she hadn't thought of in years, her old life before her fall into the Enchanted Forest. She had been betrayed more times than she could count, by friends and those who pretended to be family, and still, she didn't know if she would want to see those people die.

"So you see, Emma. Family is a weakness. You will love them, and they will betray you. Blood means  _nothing_. It is better to make a family of your own choosing."

Columbine's mood had turned dark, and with those last words, she turned her back on the fire and stilled, perhaps hoping that with her dreams would come peace.

Emma, though she would have been pleased to have sleep come to her so easily, found that her comforting sense of weariness had receded, leaving instead reflections that clung to the edges of her mind.

She hadn't thought of her life prior to the Enchanted Forest for years, most of the time, it merely lingered at the back of her memory like an old dream. She had changed so much from the girl she had been. The years of struggling to endure each day, of living in a world that was wild and untamed—they had allowed her to grow into a survivor. She'd seen and experienced things that would have made the old Emma crumble, but there were times when the heart and feelings of that young girl whose parents abandoned her were easy to recall. It was in those moments that she knew Columbine was right.

_Family is weakness._

Emma had never been stronger, and it was only once she had let go of those childish hopes that she had been able to thrive.

 


	3. Chapter 3

One last wisp of lingering smoke threaded upward from the ground, wending its way through the warm ashes despite the leather boot trying to snuff it out. Emma felt something stick in the back of her throat, but refused to acknowledge it for what it truly was— grief. Instead, she set about scouring the campsite for the medicinal herb satchel, but that, like everything else, was gone. Her head throbbed painfully and she brought a hand tenderly to her temple, gently inspecting the bruised and bloody lump with her fingertips. She knew there was a healthy patch of boneset growing near the northern marsh, but didn't think she could get there before nightfall, and the area was rife with ogres. A cry of frustration built in her throat, but she suffocated it quickly, unwilling to draw attention to her location. She sat heavily on the ground by the dead fire, her mind warring between the two choices she had before her, neither of them appealing.

Unable to focus on the future, despite the urgency, she let her mind slip backwards, her thoughts a montage of foolish choices and painful consequences. Her fingers momentarily brushed the swelling on her head, though it was the least painful consequence of the lot.

* * *

 

She and Columbine hadn't had success locating a fresh supply wagon in months, the last of their meager supplies from robbing the elderly coachman and his son dwindling. The ogre attacks on struggling refugee camps, and even the few lingering fortifications, had increased, and the shift was certainly unfavorable. While bird and squirrel were plentiful, the scanty meat on their bones was not often worth the energy spent hunting them, and it had been years since Emma had seen deer and elk in the forest. Their desperation had made them less worried about being reckless than in the past.

The rumor overhead from the simple thatched rooftop of one of the few taverns left was one of hope. A royal fleet had docked on the western shoreline, supposedly with aid and goods that would be sent with a wagon to the nearest camp, and distributed from there. Emma had taken the excellent tidings back to Columbine, who had had no luck in her own searches for a lead, and they prepared.

It had seemed so easy, and now looking back, Emma understood that it had been  _too_  easy. There had been no word of royal fleets for years, rumors holding that the seas were rife with pirates keeping them at bay. The sudden appearance of such a temptation, especially after the camps had conveyed no supplies from one to another in months, should have raised a few suspicions, but they were famished and eager.

_Glancing down, Emma ran her fingers lightly over her raw and bruised wrists, feeling the tender indentations that circled them from when they'd bound her._

It was supposed to be a wagon raid like any other, with a few slight adaptations. Everything had gone amiss the moment she'd dropped from the overhanging branch. She was in the air for only a second, but it felt like minutes as she realized her mistake.

The wagon was a deep one, meant to carry large barrels of supplies, with a length of broadcloth stretched tautly over the frame, protecting the goods. As she fell, her instincts latched onto the play of the wagon wheels over the uneven, pitted terrain. They should have sunken a bit into the depressions, pressed down by the weight of cargo, but instead they glided easily across. The wagon bed was empty. The lightly tacked broadcloth billowed around her as her feet sunk into emptiness. Thrown off balance by the fabric, it took her a few more seconds than was safe to find the edge of the wagon and vault over. The next moments were a chaotic blur of noises and sensations. The soft grunt that came from her mouth as something firm wrapped around her wrist, yanking her backwards, the sickening crack as she landed a blow on the delicate bones in someone's face. She stumbled forward, the grip on her wrist suddenly absent, and sensing her freedom, dashed forward into the meadow that hugged the opposite side of the trail.

_Columbine_.

Columbine had been waiting in the undergrowth at the roadside to rush the wagon the moment Emma left the tree. Emma hadn't seen her, but clearly the men had laid the wagon as a trap. What if they had taken Columbine?

Emma heard the wild pounding of footsteps behind her, and knowing she couldn't possibly fight and win, she began an eager game of dodge and duck, her instincts swift and fine-tuned after years spent surviving. She wove easily between the men as they lunged toward her, swords at the ready. The game was a close one, and more than once she felt the brush of knuckles against her back as she spun between them, but in only a few moments she had breached their circle and was scurrying over the top of the wagon, her eyes scanning the roadside below for Columbine's prone form. She saw nothing—and then the slight movement in the forest, ten yards beyond, caught her eye.

There stood Columbine. The two empty rucksacks were slung over her shoulder, a look that contained both apology and hardness within it aimed at Emma. The curly-haired thief touched her fingers briefly to her heart, their long-standing farewell, and left, her clothing fading immediately into the brush as she moved, silent and invisible. The men would not see her, in fact, it was clear they never had, but they saw Emma, the sickening, heavy weight of her friend's abandonment draining the fight from her body.

The world fell in on her, a weighty rush of sound filling her ears that drowned out everything around her. She didn't feel the bruising crush of fingers grabbing her shoulders and waist, pulling her roughly away from the forest. She didn't hear the jeering taunts that echoed around the meadow, but she felt the rocking pain of something connecting solidly with her skull, and then nothing.

When Emma woke, there was only a small, lingering swell of sunlight left hanging over the canopy of the forest, the meadow where the wagon had halted cast in shadow. Her senses came back to her slowly, small stirrings of pain and discomfort. The rich tang of blood in her mouth was familiar and grounding. She heard the crackle of wood burning from the other side of the wagon, and around it the boorish commentary of the men who had accosted her. Clearly, at least one thing had been stowed away in that wagon of theirs, if the slurred quality of their speech was any indicator. Well, that would certainly make her exit a bit easier. Her mind turned to the rope cutting deeply into her wrists. They had taken no chance in assuring she was bound tightly, but they'd made the mistake of tying her hands in front of her, most likely assuming she would not wake from her stupor. They underestimated the sheer amount of knocks to the head Emma had received over the years.

Slowly and carefully, not wanting to alert her captors to her mobility, Emma raised herself off her side and into a sitting position, her knees bent in front of her. She had harbored no hope that her two favored dirks would be at her side, and indeed they were gone, along with the hidden blade strapped to her thigh. She usually found, however, that once one hidden blade was found, the foragers search became less thorough. If she was right, she had a chance at escape, and a good one. Easing her hands down the side of her legs, which were also bound nicely, her fingers picked at the wound leather of her boot until she was able to grasp the edge of a small, unhafted blade that had been worked into the material. It was not much use in a fight, unless she could get close to an artery, but it was one hell of an insurance policy. Leaving the blade tucked snugly into the firm wall of the boot, she began the agonizingly slow process of grating the rope over it as quietly as she could.

She had made it most of the way through the binding on her wrists when her attention was drawn to the far side of the meadow. A murder of crows had broken from their roosts. They circled together in the air before flying east and disappearing. For some, it would be considered nothing more than a bad omen at a time like this, but Emma knew better. They were intelligent birds, and they were fleeing something, something far worse than a bad omen.

Emma broke through the rope on her wrist, wincing inwardly at the slight snap that accompanied the release of tension. She paused momentarily, but the drunken mumbling continued unabated. Glancing toward the forest on the far side of the meadow, she used her free hands to remove the blade from the boot and began to work on her leg restraints.

A thin layer of sweat formed on her brow as her eyes darted back to the far wood. There were few things that could startle the birds so completely that they would leave their unfledged young in the middle of the night. The thought of what may be heading in her direction left a cold hollowness in her chest, and her pace became more frantic. She could feel the slight vibration that carried across the ground, her sensitive ears catching the cracking of branches in the distance. She had been hoping a quick search of the wagon for her weaponry would be feasible, but time did not seem to be on her side. The cord they had used to bind her legs seemed to be of a sturdier type then what they had used on her hands, and she found herself having to press the blade far more roughly than before, the whine of knife against rope suddenly cutting into the still of the night. She heard the raucous laughter around the campfire falter, and then the crunch of heavy boots pressing into the ground. Perhaps they were stouter drunks then she gave them credit for.

The rope around her ankles finally snapped, her heart beating wildly as she stood shakily on her cramped legs. Emma heard the man yell at the same time she heard the rumbling growl from across the meadow—the low call of an ogre that had pinpointed the sounds of prey. He didn't seem to notice it in his single-mindedness to keep her from escaping. His sizable hand wrapped around her wrist before drawing her roughly into his chest, one hand wrapping around her neck as the other folded across her stomach.

His voice was wild with drink when he spoke, growing wilder still as he fumbled with the laces on her leggings.

"I knew ye'd be trouble. Not a  _lady_ , I told the lads, but I'll put you down proper, then."

Emma did the only thing she could think of that would ease the grip on her neck, giving her an opportunity to escape. She turned into him, the motion contrary to the struggle he had expected. One hand rested on his chest, and the other reached for his breeches. If she was wrong, if her gamble didn't pay off, she would be dead with the rest of them. She could hear the muted, unhurried grunts of the ogre. While it was not the smartest of creatures, it hunted instinctively, and it knew from the rowdy laughter at the campfire that its prey had not fled. It wouldn't waste the energy charging unless its quarry was on the move.

The touch of her fingertips against the waist of his breeches had the desired effect, his arms loosening in surprise. Swiftly, knowing her actions needed to be precise and without fail, she palmed the hilt of the blade at his side, the keening of metal sliding through leather a winded sigh in the air. He was quick for a drunk, she gave him that, his arms already moving to stop her, but she was too fast. Before he even realized what had transpired, the blade was buried in his gut, a small trickle of blood leaving his lips. He staggered backwards, falling heavily onto his knees as he looked toward the empty space where Emma had been in surprise.

Emma had only taken fifteen steps into the cover of the forest before she heard the wagon shatter and the screams begin. Knowing that moving further while the ogre was still feeding so close at hand was a fool's errand, she tucked herself into the sturdy branches of a nearby tree while the sounds of dying men were still loud enough to cover her scrabbling feet and hands. Once the blood lust wore down, the ogre would move on, and she would be able to make her way back to camp— if there was anything left of it.

* * *

 

And here she stood, the ruins of her camp surrounding her as fear and anger warred in her throat, seeking a voice. Food stores had been raided, and any useful equipment vanished, though not by angry refugees looking for retribution, nor by an ogre.

_Columbine._

Bile pressed at the back of her throat and she found her fingers wound tightly in the folds of her cloak. The hurt of Columbine's betrayal was fresh and sharp, wedged between her ribs like a blade. Columbine was not only the first person she had met in the Enchanted Forest, but was her first real friend in both worlds, though from where she sat now, perhaps she had been too hasty in that consideration. The irony was not lost on her that where she had gone back to search for Columbine, to help her if need be, Columbine had fled the first moment she realized Emma was caught.

They had lived, survived, and fought side by side for five years. The sad thought occurred to her that it was the longest relationship of any kind that she'd ever had.

Emma had bitten back her sorrow on the exhausting trek back from the ill-fated foray, hoping that perhaps she would find her friend waiting at the camp, shrugging off the desertion as she brushed aside everything that she found displeasing, and Emma knew she would have let her. Her thoughts settled on that conversation so many months ago, Columbine's dark tale of her past.

_You will love them, and they will betray you._

Emma understood that depressing reality better than most; the words were the truth between the memories etched on her heart. No matter how much they claimed to love and want her, every family that had taken her in as a child had eventually discarded her. She thought she had finally found the family that would stick around, the family of her own choosing.

_Columbine._

She could make the easy choice. She knew Columbine well enough, her patterns and habits. There was a possibility that she was still nearby, and loaded down with all of their belongings, she would be easier to track. Emma could go after and shrug off the betrayal, taking comfort in the fact that she again had a companion, but when a knot of anger twisted in her gut, she knew it would be impossible. She would never trust her again. Their family had been broken, and it could not be fixed.

The only other option, then, was to move on. Once, years ago, they had discussed going to live in one of the refugee camps. The idea had not settled well with either of them, the idea of trading true freedom for the false security of a few stone walls and ill-trained soldiers off-putting. Though Columbine was gone, the nausea that settled in her stomach at the thought of giving up her autonomy was the same, and she knew the camps were not an option.

She had heard rumors that the far southern shores were mostly intact, and with that, the coastal towns and cities. If she was going to venture off on her own, she would need to rely on the skills Columbine had taught her so well over the years—and if there was any place for a thieving, swindling drifter, it was most certainly the port towns.

A hopeful smile tugged at Emma's lips. She had always wanted to see the ocean.


	4. Chapter 4

While this particular tavern she frequented could not be praised for its fine selection of ales, it did have an uninterrupted view of the harbor, which was a far better thing to dwell on over the swill in her tankard. The sun was still young in the sky, and Port Bastisse was in the midst of a lull, the majority of the populace only just beginning the crawl to some dark corner where they could sleep off their overindulgences. That was the pattern life down at the docks kept to, at any rate.  Then there were those few souls awake and wandering, like Emma, mostly because they’d passed out while the night was still beginning and could make an early go of it the next day. Emma did her best to blend in, her face dour over the rim of her drink, but her eyes, half-hooded though they were, stayed alert.

Columbine may have been the more proficient fighter, but Emma Swan had far exceeded her when it came to the subtle art of trickery and guile. She’d only been in Port Bastisse for a couple weeks, skimming gold and trinkets to sell at the docks from the cleaner, and more profitable, shops up the embankment, and she already had her place among the local drifters and drunkards. That made it far simpler to arouse no suspicion as she watched the docks that morning, her blonde hair liberally dusted with grime and tucked beneath an old cap, her tenderly cared for garments concealed easily beneath a tattered cloak. She was just another ne’re-do-well searching for absolution in the bottom of a mug.

Her attention was drawn to the harbor as the shadow of something large loomed on the horizon, a mirage rising from the ocean—a ship. The slight tick in her jaw was the only indication that something had piqued her interest. Never let it be said that Emma Swan was not composed. She observed for the better part of an hour as the ship anchored in the deeper waters of the harbor. Her eyes searched carefully, but it flew no colors, and she watched with interest the lively activity on deck as men hurried to prepare several smaller vessels for entry into the water. By the time they had moored at the docks, Emma’s suspicions were confirmed. Each man was draped with an identical air of hunger, some for drink, and some for women—and while that was a weakness shared by all men stranded at sea, the conscripted and condemned alike, the mismatched and heavily nicked weaponry was as clear a sign as any. She had found her pirates.

As the crew made their way up from the docks, some staying to linger at the less discerning brothels directly on the water, Emma slipped from her seat and chose a path that would lead her away from any areas the pirates might frequent. Her plan was a simple one, but apprehension had grown in her the longer she waited, nothing but small merchant skiffs anchoring at the docks for weeks on end. She chose a rarely used footpath that haunted the last of the dwellings in Port Bastisse. It circled around the outer edge of the city and disappeared into the stony western beach, and ideal area to wait and watch.

Having retrieved her few belongings from a well hidden cache, she had nothing to occupy her mind as she gazed over the water, and found her thoughts turning, as they often did, to Columbine. She had found that the sorrow was less keen edged, though the anger was still complete. The only thing she wished she understood was why Columbine had waited. She had lingered in the forest that day, knowing that Emma would spot her, and then she had bid her farewell and vanished. She could have just as easily disappeared without the song and dance. Perhaps she had known that Emma would need to see her leave to be able to let her go. Her thoughts lingered in that place for most of the day, trancelike, though her hand rested easily on the dagger at her hip.

She had managed to replace one of her dirks on her travels (the watchman she’d nicked it from none the wiser), and had even acquired a second, smaller blade to strap to her leg. They weren’t the finest weapons, neither of them having the same balance as her old loves, but they did their best by her.

It was the slight change in the wind that brought her back to full awareness, the sun settling languidly into the cliffs at her back and casting a deep shadow over the beach. She rose from her cross-legged position, patiently stretching the ache from her arms and legs. The sun had disappeared from Port Bastisse by the time she felt ready to begin, her body nimble enough for the long swim to the ship.

Ensuring her blades were held securely within their sheathes, the weight of them a familiar assurance, she strode into the low, singing tide, her feet finding secure footing on the stony reef. The hem of Emma’s cloak rose eerily in the water as she stepped further amid the lapping waves, spreading just beneath the surface like the sleek wings of a ray. A shiver traveled up her spine as the cold of the sea finally seeped through her thin leggings, though in her core she felt a tremble of excitement, and wondered if that wasn’t more the culprit. Within seconds she had waded out far enough that the waves played gently at her chest, and she took a moment to adjust, scanning the distant waters.  

The ship rested, almost seeming asleep, its sails furled and cordage pulled taut. The moon was full, casting a shimmering glow across the dimpled surface of the water, and she only hoped that whatever crew may be keeping watch aboard, they had a belly full of drink. Feeling circumstance begin to overwhelm her, as it sometimes did, she focused on the first step, getting to the ship. She didn’t want to think of any number of things that could go wrong before then. Once her mind was firmly settled on that single important thought, she pushed off the last of the sandy bottom she could reach, and began moving slowly through the water, her cloak dragging, but not weighing her down. She opened her arms before her and propelled herself forward with a snap of her legs, cautious to make as little disturbance as possible, only her head visible above the sheen of the water.     

The silhouette of the ship was dark and solid, and by the time Emma reached it, the chill in her body seemed less from excitement and more from cold waters. If the temperature hadn’t sapped the thrill of adventure from her, the slick, glistening walls of the ship certainly did. Her plan had been to scale the hull, and while it was achievable, it was not going to be easy by any means. If she hadn’t had the good fortune of a favorable current, it would have been impossible.

Steeling her resolve, she grabbed hold of the rough barnacled hull, resting for a moment and letting her eyes search out the handholds and fissures she would use to brace herself. With a fierce determination born of years spent doing for herself, she began her climb. The work became easier as she reached the gunports, her fingers and feet making good use of the iron hinges on the closed shutters. From the gunports it was a short and easy haul to the top.     

The slight hiss of air she expelled on dropping over the railing, less gracefully then she had intended, made her pause, her eyes searching the deck for any sign she had been heard. In spite of this, nothing stirred, any crew left on the ship seemingly occupied elsewhere. Gaining her bearings, she quickly crossed the deck to where she surmised the Captain’s Cabin would be, the beautiful leaded glass window below the quarterdeck giving the location away easily. Her cloak dragged silently along the worn deck as she moved forward in something between a crouch and a dash, her hand occasionally flitting to her dagger as the wind tousled the rigging.

When she reaches the hatch, she presses her ear firmly against its surface, listening intently for any sounds from within. As nothing other than the creak of wood comes to her, she pulls a set of lockpicks from her chest and sets to work on the catch. It eases open gently in her hand, and she feels her body quiver with anticipation. Praying the hinges aren’t noisy, she slips down the ladder and into the cabin, a small smile playing at the corner of her lips.  

She is just beginning to survey the contents of the shelves and the bed in front of her when her smile is stolen by the press of something cold and deadly against her throat. It’s followed immediately by the bruising grip of a hand on her arm, and the soft-spoken whisper of hard words in her ear.

“It’s a brave lass that breaches the Captain’s cabin while he’s on deck.” 

His voice is low and tinged with menace, and the sudden presence of him at her back makes her heart thump with a heady mixture of fear and exhilaration. 

“It’s a foolish man who turns down a gift,” she whispers, pleased that there is only a slight coarseness in her tone, the only hint of the fear throbbing in her veins.

She holds her breath as his right hand releases her upper arm, his fingers dropping downward to trail gently along the side of her breast.

“Well, if it’s a gift you are,” he murmurs, his breath and lips moving from her ear to her neck, even as his fingers continue their journey along the smooth inlet of her waist and the swell of her hip, “you’ve come very well wrapped.”

His hand dispatches the dagger at her hip smoothly and efficiently, the dull thump of metal against wood ringing in her ears as he tosses it aside. The sharp weapon at her throat pierces skin, and she bites back a gasp as the slight tear of blood trickles down her collarbone, stirring the hairs on her neck. Her heart flutters as his fingers sweep across the front of her leggings to the valley between her legs, and she wonders briefly where her composure has gone now as his hand presses down along her inner thigh, gliding smoothly until it reaches the hilt of her second knife, his fingers closing tightly around it. She can feel the faintest whisper of his lips against her neck as he pulls the blade from its sheath, the point searing along her leg as he drags it upwards, finally bringing it to rest against the firmness of her stomach.   

“I consider myself a learned man, so educate me further. Why should I do anything other than gut you where you stand?”

The fear resurfaces, and the coldness in his voice makes Emma realize she may well have started a game she can’t win, but to stop trying would be folly. 

“Well, for starters, I think it would be a shame to ruin that lovely bed.” She barely feels the soft hitch in his breath at the back of her neck, but it was there, and it gives her courage. “In the event, however, that is not motivation enough to spare my life, how about the fact that I can make you incredibly wealthy?”

“I’ve riches to spare, darling. Tick tock.”

Emma is startled that her mouth opens and intelligent words come out, because that had been her coup de grace, and he had turned it down flatly. 

“Well, then how about the fact that you’ve quite underestimated my arsenal, Captain?”

She is bluffing now, but hopefully any signs of her deception will be disguised by the chill of her still dripping skin and the nervous trembling he’s already teased out of her.

“You’ve a blade in your boot, but no way to reach it before I kill you. Have you tired of this game yet, love?”

“Not all weapons are wielded metal,” she hints, pushing her neck back ever so slightly against his mouth, his lips warm and wet as his tongue brushes across them.  

After a moment she feels a crooked smile against her skin, but he surrenders no control over the blades he so expertly wields. This was a man who could not be dissuaded from his path by the promise of a quick romp in the hay, so she chooses her next words carefully, one last desperate charade she hopes he will swallow—knowing that if he does not remove his weapon from her neck soon, he won’t see a reason to.

“Have you ever heard of the Fair Maiden’s Lily?”

There is a slight tick in the balance of the blade at her throat, and having gotten his attention, she persists.

“It’s named after—and somehow I sense you’ll excuse my vulgarity—the blush on a maiden’s cheeks after she’s been taken by a man. It’s a silly thing, one would think, since the bloom is as white as snow.” She chuckles softly, the lightness carrying into her words as she continues. “It’s not the petals that give it such a lovely name, though, but the inevitable bleeding that occurs when ingested. It begins with the blood pooling beneath the skin, fair mimicry of a blush, don’t you think? From that point on however, it gets a bit nastier. There’s only one known cure. An interesting fact, Captain—completely safe when applied to the skin, but if even a drop were to be ingested, say, as one swept their tongue across their lips, it’s not a pretty sight.”

Seconds pass and she swears she can hear both their hearts beating. A small shiver of relief passes over her as she feels the blades drawn back from her skin. There is a calm, measured quality to his footfalls as he takes a few steps back. Not sure how long the respite from danger will last; she bends down and pulls a small blade from the inside of her boot. Once the hilt is settled firmly in her palm, the trembling in her fingers stills.

Heartbeat still echoing in her throat, she turns to face the Captain. Her eyes are immediately drawn to his, as cold and blue as the waters she just braved, but just as quickly, they flicker to his left wrist, where instead of a hand, there is a vicious looking hook, the tip tinged slightly with the remnants of her blood. She finds that there is an unknown, curious feeling settling into her chest, and she pushes it aside. Forcing her eyes back to his face, she takes in the rough sand of stubble that accents his angular features, somehow understanding innately that this is a dangerous man.   

“Well, now that we’re evenly matched, perhaps we can speak civilly,” Emma suggests.

She anticipates some response from the Captain, but his eyes are merely surveying her from beneath dark brows, his face a mask of calm. No word or question of a cure passes his lips. He seems to be scrutinizing every inch of her, and she can feel the pulse at her neck quicken. She wonders if he notices this as well.

“Your name, lass.”

It is a command, not a question, and she finds herself trying to find a reason to deny him, but his manner does not seem exceptionally forgiving at the moment.

“Emma Swan.”

“Well, _Emma_ , being an educated man, I have, in fact, heard of this bloom of which you speak. I also know—” he pauses, absentmindedly retrieving a cloth from somewhere within his heavy leather jacket that he uses to clean the tip of his hook. “—that the nectar, while incredibly toxic, also dissolves in water.”

There is a grim smile at his lips now as he tucks the cloth back into his pocket and steps towards her. 

“You see, I saw you climb aboard my ship. You were quite…wet, darling. I followed you as you forced entry into my cabin, and not once did I see you apply anything to your skin in the moments between your arrival and my sudden presence at your backside.”

His tongue lingers over the last word, and despite the warning in her gut demanding she breathe steadily and remain calm, she can’t help trying to swallow the dry lump in her throat, and her eyes are linked solidly with his as watches the bob in her neck, a satisfied smile on his face.

“So now that we both know I’ll be alive and well for the foreseeable future, how about we have that civilized discussion of which you spoke?”

“You’re not going to kill me?”

“Oh, I didn’t say that, love. I haven’t quite made up my mind in that regard, but I find your cunning compelling enough to hear you out first, so on with it, before I lose my patience.”

“In that case—” _It was now, or not at all._ “I offer you my services, Captain.”

There is an extended moment of silence as the Captain leans easily back against the ladder, the worn leather of his jacket accommodating his arms perfectly as he crosses them against his chest.  

“All of that theater for a turn in my bed, love. You need only have asked.”

“That is not the type of service I am offering you,” Emma replies, less infuriated by his response than she expected, though she _is_ amazed at the man’s capability to turn anything, including the threat of death, into the most lewd innuendo. “I’m a thief, and a damn good one at that. If you take me aboard your ship, those skills will be at your disposal.”

 “And if I choose not to accept this proposition?”

“Then I’ll take my offer to another ship, and they will gain the advantage.”

“You’re making one grave assumption there, love.”

“And that would be?”

“That should I not accept your proposal, I will simply give you leave of my ship.”

The retort forming on her lips is waylaid by the swift movement of the Captain striding forward and raising his hook to the underside of her chin, the motion rapid and unerring. His right hand halts the sweep of her dagger at almost the exact moment she had the thought to use it. Tenderly, he tilts her face upward, the sharp tip of the hook pressing firmly against her. She finds herself looking into his eyes, a few strands of errant black hair falling mischievously across his forehead, the detail of his chiseled features so clear.

“Lucky for you, lass, I’m of a mind to not only accept your proposition, but to also overlook that lovely little knife you’ve got aimed at my gut.”

Lowering his hook, his blue eyes still settled completely on hers, he lifts her wrist, the dagger still clutched tightly in her palm, and places the breath of a kiss on her knuckles.

“We have an accord, Emma Swan.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: I hope you guys enjoyed Hook’s debut. I had a lot of fun writing the play between them in this chapter. I apologize in advance for any grievous grammatical errors or misspellings. I'm in the process of uploading this story from FFnet and seem to have neglected saving the last minute revision drafts from their text editor before publishing. Consequently, there may be a few missing words here or there, but there won't be any major changes/missing pieces. Review and critiques are most welcome.


	5. Chapter 5

An impenetrable fog hung over the Jolly Roger that evening, the glow of the moonlight muddled with the sea of mist drifting below Emma as she perched in the rigging. Floating upward through the thickened air came the curses of the crew as they readied the Captain’s gig and pinnaces. The fog had rolled in swiftly over the bay, and she was glad they had already found a suitable place to drop anchor, the treacherous water that cradled the ship laced with reefs. Below her the echoes of footfalls quickened, and she heard the tell-tale creaking of the ships’ boats being lowered into the water.

Gripping the main topmast-stay firmly in her gloved hands, she swung her legs quickly upward, her calves encircling the rope. Smooth, thick leather pads on her leggings provided a swift descent, while the wrecked, scored leather of her gloves slowed her velocity enough that she was able to safely tumble to the forecastle, springing into a crouch as easily as breathing.

As her eyes focused, recovering from the tight roll onto the deck, she found herself staring at a very familiar pair of boots.  

“Captain,” she said, rising to meet his gaze.

The rest of the crew was on the main deck preparing for the row to shore, and Emma felt the familiar trill of excitement in her chest as her eyes met his, her thoughts returning to that menacing encounter in his cabin a few weeks prior. Whenever they met like this, the length of an arm between them, the crew otherwise occupied, her body would summon up the feel of his breath on her neck, the press of his hand on her thigh.   

_We have an accord, Emma Swan._

The ghost of his lips across her knuckles—a knife poised between them.

She blinked, the time and place coming back to her along with the noises of the crew.

 “Follow me, Swan.” Hook ordered, his blue eyes slipping from hers as he crossed the main deck, his pace never faltering as crew members scurried to get out of his path.

He swung the hatch to his cabin open as if it weighed nothing more than the cover of a book, and Emma caught it neatly in her hand as his fingers left it, his steps leading them both into the well-lit interior of his private quarters.

Emma watched as Hook strode to the cabinet beside his desk, flicking the door open with his hook before snagging a large canvas sack on its keen tip. He turned to her then, his eyes finally resting on hers, the stormy blue of them catching the light of the oil lamps swinging from the rafters.

“It’s time for you to earn your keep, Swan.”

“Earn my keep,” she echoed, the corner of her mouth twisting upward as she spread her arms, gesturing to the excess of opulent, glittering treasures that graced his cabin, the shelves far less bare then the last time she had been his guest.  

 “Trifles,” he dismissed, his fingers gently caressing a wooden clock inlaid with pearl. “Beautiful trifles, nothing more.”

“I thought there was nothing a pirate cared for more than treasure.”

She hadn’t realized how attuned to his movements she had become—hours spent watching him control the ship and crew through wild storms and boarding, studying the twists of his torso as he fought, his hook a natural and deadly extension—but because she was so familiar with his effortless rhythm, the slight hitch in his swagger as he advanced was easy to spot.

Something about her words had disturbed him, but other than that single tell, he gave nothing away. 

“Aye, lass, that’s true enough, but even you know that not all treasure is gold or pretty trinkets.”

His footsteps stilled closer to her than she should have wanted, but at the same time, not nearly close enough. Her eyes had fallen to his boots, the spread of them confident against the polished floor, the crescent of his leather jacket shifting about his legs as the ship rocked gently. She pulled her gaze upward, lingering only briefly on the tempting expanse of his chest, silver charms nestled among the undone laces of his shirt, before meeting his eyes.    

There was the muted sound of something insubstantial hitting the floor, and she realized he had dropped the canvas bag at his side. She glanced down, noticing that the ties at the top had loosened, revealing folds of embroidered burgundy and cream.

Her attention was swiftly redirected at the solid press of steel against her shoulder, a slight grunt escaping her lips as she glared at the Captain.

 “Turn.”

“Excuse me?”

 “Take off your cloak,” he commanded, his hook drifting lower to catch in the hem of her garment and pull it aside, “and turn—and I suggest you be quick about it, or I’ll remove it for you.”  

She hesitated, her fingers manipulating the fabric as she studied his face, his features a mask of indifference and containing none of the heat she sometimes felt simmering below the surface.

“I thought we had already come to an understanding, Captain, of what my services included.”

“I don’t need to force women into my bed, Swan. When you end up there, it will not be because I ordered it.”

Her core tightened impossibly at what his statement implied. 

“It will be because you _wanted_ it.”

And there it was—the subtle, languorous heat evident in the slight part of his lips and the slow journey of his tongue along the bottom. Her fingers deftly rose to the fastening of her cloak, making short work of undoing it, lingering at her collarbone as the cloak slipped from her shoulders, a puddle on the floor.

She kept her eyes focused on his, two twin orbs of blue beneath dark brows, the occasional sweep of black locks falling forward. There was appreciation in his eyes, but something else as well, something more detached.

“Turn, Swan. Let me have a good look at you without that cloak.”

There was a hard, defiant lock to her jaw, but the insistent press of his hook at her shoulder had her turning slowly before him, a merciless heat flushing her body.

_Her thoughts returned to a time that seemed so long ago, her body arching over the compliant form of a young lad from one of the camps, his hands plying the soft mounds of her breasts only after she forcefully dragged them there, his face strained between ecstasy and concern as she bucked on top of him, unsure if she was pleased, or in pain._

Hook’s fingers brushed the back of her neck, his nails scratching across the sensitive skin as she turned.

_Then there were the gentle attentions of a stable boy that had taken her from behind, his lips peppering that same skin with delicate kisses as he entered her, his own peak reached quickly as she pressed herself brutally against stone of the stable, aching to feel something._

By the time she had turned completely back to face him, those memories had fled, and it was _his_ body she was picturing beneath her, his hand rough and demanding as he touched what he pleased, leaving bruises in his wake, _his_ hips driving upwards into her until she was a sobbing wreck. It was his mouth at her neck as he took her, hook driven into the wall of the cabin, the elegant bow of it restraining her wrists as he marked her neck with his teeth.

Emma could feel her core throbbing, her nipples painfully taut beneath the well-worn leather of her shirt, and when she met his eyes, she knew that her flushed breathlessness had not gone unnoticed. 

 “I think you’ll do just fine, Swan,” he murmured, his voice uncharacteristically rough.

 

* * *

 

The water lapped gently at the edges of the small boat as it parted the cloak of fog, slipping silently along in the night. The man rowing it made nary a disturbance with his oars as they cut through the gentle swells, his eyes focused on the thin swathes of water visible as they headed for the shore, dead reckoning.

Emma clutched the canvas bag beneath her cloak, the hood draped fully over her hair. She found herself grateful for the silence of the row to shore, the only sounds the rhythmic hushing of water against wood. She ran the Captain’s directives through her head once again, the humor of the situation pulling a smile from her lips.

_~             ~             ~             ~             ~_

_“Give me an hour, Swan, and then head to the tavern. I should have the key by then. If you were to come to me as you are—a member of the crew—someone would take notice of you leaving and follow, eager to catch myself or my crew in a bit of trouble, but as a bar wench? None would think it odd for me to take you back to the ship for a nightcap. That is when you’ll be able to slip away unnoticed.”_

_“So I am to play the role of a wench, Captain?”_

_“Aye, Swan, and one that is eager to bed me, mind you.”_

_The air seemed to still as the words he had spoken only moments earlier hung between them._

I think you’ll do just fine, Swan.   

_“You’ll row out after the rest of crew has already departed. Change into your new attire at the docks, stash your leathers, and then make your way to the tavern in one candlemark. You understand what you’re to do after that?”_

_“Aye, Captain,” she whispered, eyes dark._

_“Then I’ll meet you at the tide when you’ve finished.”_

_She turned to leave the cabin, needing the brisk air on the deck to clear her mind and cool her body._

_“Swan?” he called._

_She didn’t say anything, but her hand stilled on the hatch, waiting._

_“Be watchful, lass.”_

~             ~             ~             ~             ~

 

Emma tucked the canvas sack between the crags of a rocky outcropping at the edge of the beach, hoisting the dress Hook had given her around her thighs, not wanting to look as if she’d walked straight out of the sea when she arrived at the tavern. The boning cut sharply into her ribs as she inhaled and she loosened the buttons on the low neckline of the dress, revealing another inch of the chemise. When that didn’t help, she tugged the laces loose, revealing another sliver of her well-supported breasts. Taking in a slightly deeper breath, she was punished with the same constricting pain along her ribs. Well, even if she couldn’t breathe, at least she looked properly wanton.

She didn’t encounter any lingering souls along the docks, and only passed a handful of sailors and locals who had imbibed a bit too eagerly, lying insensible against the first surface that had seemed stationary. It was easy enough to find the tavern, the port town was small, boasting only one watering hole, and the revelry from the crew would have been loud enough to draw ogres, if there were any this far south.

Without missing a step, she let Emma Swan go—forsaking the fluidity of her movements for a gentle sway to her hips. She lowered her shoulders, presenting the flawless expanse of her décolletage for perusal, and headed into the tavern.

She didn’t go to Hook right away; instead surveying the crowd of sailors as any bar wench would, looking for the coin. Hook must have spoken with the crew before they arrived, because though they gave her passing, appreciative glances, one or two even going so far as to ‘call the pretty lass over’, as any pirate would do when faced with a buxom wench, none of them gave her away. There were quite a few faces she did not recognize, locals from the port town who were either too deep in their cups to care that the tavern had been taken over by pirates, or too sober to give in for the night.

She paused at several tables along her route to Hook, even tossing back a jigger of rum with Avery, the young sailor who had rowed her ashore, allowing him to wrap his arm about her waist and draw her in to his lap before she pulled out of his grasp with a twist, setting her sights on another man with a larger stack of gold behind his dice.

It was then that she noticed a man leaning against the bar, his face shadowed by the brim of a three-cornered hat, his mouth pressed into a firm line as he watched the carousing. From hooded eyes that seemed focused on the game of Liar’s Dice before her, she studied him. One hand clutched a tankard firmly, but the other twitched at his side every now and then, as if he were resisting the urge to lay it on the hilt of his sword. She couldn’t be certain, but it seemed likely this was one of the watchers of whom the Captain spoke. Her smile vanished as the pirate currently enjoying her company lost his winnings, and she took the opportunity to move on, feeling that the moment was right to find Hook.

Pushing the pleading hands of her fellow crew member away playfully, Emma allowed her gaze to travel the room once more before settling on the Captain, her eyes taking in the easy sway he held over the table at which he sat, every inch the notorious Captain Hook. She wound her way through the crowd, placing her hands firmly on the table in front of him and leaning deeply in, her chest heaving slightly.

“What are you boys playing?”

His blue eyes were on her immediately, dark and stormy, and she knew he had been following her path through the room, watching the hands of his men play at her waist as they pulled her about like some common bar wench. The thought that it had angered him, perhaps even made him the tiniest bit jealous, was heady, and the thrill of a dangerous, uncontrollable situation looming made her shift her thighs restlessly, a useless attempt to sate the hollow ache between them.

It only lasted an instant, because then his eyes were filled with the bleary joy of rum, gold, and women, and his tongue was running over his lip at the sight of her breasts displayed before him. His arm left the shoulder of the woman beside him, her company already forgotten, and he leaned forward, his eyes traveling slowly downward to the laces of her loosened chemise before lifting upwards again to look into the laughing green of her gaze.

 “Ever played Liar’s Dice, lass?”

“Well,” she teased, angling her neck away from him as she circled the table, the tips of her fingers dragging along the wood. “I’ve not played myself, though I’ve been told I bring some luck.”

The other women shared a glance and removed themselves from the table, disinclined to waste any more time with a man unlikely to fill their cups or purses when there were plenty of other lonely souls in the tavern.

 “Then your company is quite welcome,” he murmured, his good arm darting out to encircle her waist, pulling her easily onto his lap. His hook delved into the folds of her dress, firmly anchoring her against the laces of his trousers. “What man would say no to an extra bit of luck, especially when it comes so well wrapped?”

The boning of her corset pressed cruelly inward at the sharp intake of her breath, her senses suddenly filled with the fragrances of rum and wood, even the scent of the ocean mist was still clinging to his leathers. The revelry continued around them, pirates and locals alike seemingly unaware of the wench that the Captain had chosen for the evening, but her mind recalled the man resting against the bar, and she knew at least one set of eyes would be on them.

She allowed her eyes to linger on his upturned face, her fingers grazing the tabletop until she encountered the familiar shape of a bottle. Coy smile disappearing in favor of something bolder, she brought the rum to her lips and took a swig, knowing he was admiring the way her lips wrapped soundly around the head. When his tongue swept across his lips, moistening them, she raised the bottle to his mouth, tilting it generously back, enjoying the way his eyes kept hers even as he drank. She watched with fascination as a trickle of the sweet liquid escaped, her head ducking forward gracefully to capture the wayward liquor with her tongue.

The minutes passed, the Captain far more diverted by the warmth of her curves pressed against him than the dice being tossed on the table, and Emma let her body relax against his, a small corner of her mind vigilant and watching the furtive man at the bar. The rest of her mind, however, was quite occupied with the pleasant scratch of Hook’s stubble at her breasts, his teeth occasionally coming out to nip at her chemise, seemingly exasperated at its presence. If there were third parties vested in Hook’s whereabouts for the evening, they would certainly be remiss in thinking he would be doing anything other than bedding the very willing lass on his lap.

It occurred to Emma that if she _were_ simply a bar wench, her night would be ending far differently than its course was currently set, and she suppressed a frown, instead shifting roughly in her skirts, enjoying the hitch in his throat as she pressed vigorously against the hard evidence of his desire currently taunting the back of her thighs. The evening needed to move along, her mind was getting far too clouded, and having her wits about her would be rather a necessity.

The sudden violence with which he tore his good arm from her back was jarring, and she began to fall towards the floor, only to be caught by the brace of his hook wrapping around from the other side. His hand traveled swiftly then, his fingers dragging down her skirts, clenching the hem tightly before hoisting the swathes of fabric to her knees, her legs bared on his lap.

“Open your legs for me, love.”

His voice was rough, the words laden with filthy promises as he eyed her intently, the darkness of his gaze making her center ache.

She grinned at him salaciously, not forgetting the role she was playing as she bent her knees slightly   and parted her thighs, giving way to fingers that ghosted up her skin, her skirts falling just enough to leave only a hint of his ministrations.

“There’s a good girl,” he whispered against her ear, his fingers stroking her legs open further as he worked his way up her thighs. The rough graze of his calloused palm set her blood afire, her breath only able to come in slow, needy gasps.

Then she felt it, the sensation of cold metal brushing her skin as he slipped something small alongside the blade sheathed on her thigh.

_The key._

His mouth left her ear then, his face drawing even with hers as he let his hand linger, his eyes dark and curious, eager to see what she would allow before their evening was to end.

Her eyes steady— _certain_ —she kept his gaze, an almost imperceptible hitch in her lower lip as she spread her legs just a little further, urging him on. She didn’t miss the bob at his throat as his nails dragged upward, wanting him to see that she was as aroused as he was—that if he went only a little farther, he would find her dripping.

With only the warning of his eyes losing their mad gleam, he stopped, his palm pressing firmly against her thigh, every inch of it burning against her skin, as if the contact would restrain him rather than spur him on.

In an instant he was Captain Hook again, a man deep in his drink and eager to enjoy the treasure that had so indecently landed in his lap. He stood swiftly, setting her on her feet, but keeping her body pressed to his, his voice just loud enough to be heard.  

“What do you say we set sail? Come back with me for a nightcap.”

Emma placed her hands firmly against the bare skin of his chest, her fingers winding around the silver of his chains, her mouth a breath away from his as she spoke. 

“I knew I was a lucky girl, Captain.”

 

* * *

 

Emma pulled the thin cloak that Hook had stowed within his jacket tighter about her chest, thankful that she was somewhat more inconspicuous than her embroidered dress allowed. Sparing another glance upward, she spotted the looming shape of a church steeple rising from the fog and having come to another blind end, changed direction. The mists had settled more deeply, and even though she kept to the alleyways and corridors between buildings, she was grateful for the shroud they provided.

The nearer she got to the church square, the central area of the more privileged quarter, the fewer noises there were to disrupt the night. Those that lived in these homes were most likely turned in until morning, or if they happened to be more adventurous, were partaking down at the docks. Wherever the well-to-do had chosen to lay their heads, the square seemed empty when she came upon it, filled with nothing more than dancing tendrils of mist that had been seized by a soft wind.

Emma watched the ghostly performance, eyes searching for any swirls of mist that were churning faster than the rest, disrupted by someone’s passing, but saw none. A slight frown marred her features as a stronger wind blew through the square, pulling the sinking fog along with it. If the wind continued as it was, she may not have the cover of the mist on the way back to the Jolly. Her gut was telling her it was safe to skirt the square, but experience taught her it was worth the few extra minutes to be certain. Memories of a quick fall into an empty wagon came to mind, but she pushed them away, wary of the distraction. She spent another minute scanning the square and surrounding buildings, looking for anything out of place, something that moved too often, or not enough.

When she was content that there was no trap lying in wait, at least not in the open square, she circled its edge, keeping to the shadowed fronts of the buildings as much as she could. Her eyes were focused on a large stone building beside the church. It looked to have once been a small barracks of sorts, but the banner hung above the door was long faded by the sun and wind, the insignia lost to her.

Her footsteps were bringing her swiftly to its façade, and she studied the large, uneven stones that composed its walls—they would make for a simple climb. With her current attire, she could not be more pleased. The dress had certainly highlighted her assets, and made for a very pleasurable distraction, but it had been maddening to sneak about the town with the extra weight around swinging around her legs. 

She wasted no time edging around the large building to a more sheltered corner, her fingers and thinly booted feet finding more than enough holds in the jagged rock. Her skirts and the poorly woven cloak clung to the rough stone as she rose, and she bit her lip every time they tore free. The noise was low, but it was constant.

The building itself was three floors, though the topmost floor was smaller, a turret-like room situated at the corner. Easing herself onto the low sloping roof of the second level, she paused to breathe and listen. The entire climb a far easier affair than scaling the Jolly Roger with wet clothing and trembling fingers had been.

Keeping her cloaked body low, she approached the structure, guessing it had once been the office of a high ranking official. The leaded glass windows were of a quality far superior to those she had passed below. It was beneath the sill of one of these that she knelt, listening carefully, and when she heard nothing, rising to peer through the glass. She could just make out the dusky shapes of what appeared to be shelves, and perhaps a desk. Neither were what she was looking for, but she wasn’t able to get a complete view of the room from her angle.

The windows only had a cursory lock within, rather an egregious oversight for a military garrison, and her thin blade easily shimmied the window facing away from the square loose. Slipping over the low wall and inside, she was surprised to find a sleeping mat wedged between the large desk and dust covered bookshelves. Kneeling down, she brushed her fingers over the accoutrements that sat beside it—a small stack of books, journals, she realized as she thumbed though them, and oil lamp, and a jug. Lifting the jug, she passed it quickly beneath her nose—water, but with no stale odor. It was fresh enough, which meant someone would probably be returning. She needed to hurry.

There was a door opposite her, most likely leading to the stairwell that would connect to the second floor, but she saw no sign of the iron trunk Hook had described. Other than the space clearly occupied by a lodger, the remainder of the floor was strewn with dusty crates and boxes. Her eyes lingered on a pile of blankets that seemed a sight cleaner than everything else, and moving them aside, she was pleased to see the small iron trunk.

Reaching for the key still tucked safely in the sheath on her inner thigh, she twisted it in the lock, breathing a sigh of relief when it opened silently. She didn’t _think_ anyone would be below, but the less noise she made in her line of work, the better. Her fingers sifted through the contents, tossing aside vials and clothing in favor of letters and parchment. Holding the small stack of papers, she flipped through them, eyes straining in the dim light to read the names on the few pieces of correspondence she found.   

A satisfied smirk twisted her lips when she read the name on the last envelope in her hand.

_Jacob Brinley, Ship’s Surgeon, The Mary Royale to Commodore Phillips._

The Captain would be pleased.

* * *

 

Her concern that the changing winds would disperse the fog had not been unfounded, and though she kept mostly to the shadowed alleys rather than the broad streets that wound down to the docks, she still felt insecurity hemming her in as she made her way to where she would meet Hook. The entire affair seemed all too painless for something he had been concerned enough over to stage an elaborate farce.  

She was keenly aware of the missive tucked safely into her bodice. What value could it possibly have left to molder in the remains of a long-abandoned garrison? The names written on its face were not among any Emma had heard mentioned in the refugee camps, but that wasn’t surprising. The folk of the northern Enchanted Forest had more pressing concerns than piracy and intrigue among the port cities. Clearly it held some value to Hook. Enough, she realized, that he had tested her thieving skills for weeks before setting the Jolly Roger on a course for this small town. All of the treasures stolen from the houses of nobles— _beautiful trifles, nothing more—_ had been a test. She felt pleased to have proven herself, yet disappointed. Her skills had been squandered on the simple theft, though perhaps in her current attire it had been for the best.

She heard the tavern before it came into view, the riotous behavior unlikely to end until the sun rose, and took care to circle towards the shore as far from the place as she could, slinking along the backs of the outmost buildings. As she drew close to the stretch of land beside the docks, she caught sight of a familiar figure standing in the surf beside the two-person boat in which she had come ashore. His body was turned towards the sea, the moon transforming him into a dark silhouette against the hulking shadow of the Jolly in the distance.    

Her cheeks flushed with the excitement of a successful heist as she hurried toward him, telling herself that it was the bloody corset that had her breaths coming in such a rushed manner, and not the sudden memory of his fingers lingering on her thigh, his eyes holding her as he teased. She broke into a run, feeling a strange pull to close the distance between them, cloak and hood caught by the wind and tossed behind her, blonde curls streaming.  

At the sound of her swift approach he turned, no signs of tension in his body, as if he recognized the cadence of her movement. It was his eyes that stilled her before she could reach him. As dark and serious as ever, there was a flash of something beneath them she could not place—something akin to fear, but far less human. It disappeared as quickly as it came, however, and his eyes were once again focused and intent, the tilt to his lip eager as he held out his hand.

“I can see you haven’t disappointed me then, let’s have it.”

She pulls the letter from her bodice, passing it to him and watching intently as he reads the names scrawled across the envelope. His fingers tighten appreciably around it, the tension carrying through to his back and neck. She wonders for the second time what investment he has in this particular missive.

“Job well done, Swan. I think I may just keep you,” he teases, the effortless banter he sometimes indulges her with when they are alone returning, easing the tension in his back. “Now then, let’s get back to the Jolly. I believe a nightcap was promised?”

Her easy smile belies the tight clenching of her stomach and pleasant tingling between her thighs, remembering again the scratch of his stubble on her skin, the hard ache of his brace against her back as he caught her, his hand slipping up her skirt.

His teasing is more hurried than she is used to, the words leaving his lips without the usual enticing linger, and even though it affects her the same way, she can see that he is using it as a distraction—needing to take his mind from the letter in his hand. She can’t say why she understands him so well after only a few weeks spent in his company, being that Columbine’s motivations were always a mystery to her.

“I’ll be a moment,” Emma says, choosing to forgo a response to the nightcap innuendo, not trusting what she might say. “If I don’t get my clothing, I’ll be stuck climbing the rigging in _this._ ”

She gestures to the frock that looks only slightly worse for the wear, considering it had been dragged across stone. Turning away, she strides down the shore toward the rock outcropping where she had stashed her leathers. The prospect of getting out of the unwieldy dress and into her own clothing was enticing, but not quite so much as the course her thoughts took when she imagined the different ways it could be taken off.  

The top of the canvas sack is just visible from where she stands, and she clambers up the rocks, snatching it happily. If she never has to wear another dress again, she’ll be thrilled.

_Open your legs for me, love._

Well, perhaps there is a time and a place.         

She watches him tuck the letter into his jacket, hands reaching to steady the rowboat and step in. Her thoughts are settled on the Jolly Roger and her Captain, the snap of sails unfurling, the powerful force of wind in the rigging, the comforting sway of the ship as she sleeps.

The footsteps behind her are quiet, and she doesn’t hear them, too caught up in the dreams of where they sail for next, and what thrills might await her at their next destination. Her instincts are muddled, and she only just manages a clipped scream before a strong hand presses viciously over her mouth, but it is enough.

Hook’s response is immediate, and she is close enough that she can see the fury lacing his features as he spins to face them, cutlass at the ready—though the hook is by far the more underestimated weapon. Many of his adversaries assume the tales of him are falsely spun, but Emma has seen him paint the deck red with that hook.

The second he takes a step forward, she feels the familiar kiss of a blade at her throat.

 “I don’t think that’s a wise choice, pirate,” a soft, melodic voice sing-songs behind her. “One more step, and I’ll slit the whore’s throat from one side to the other.”

 


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: Language, Violence (both implied and actual).
> 
> This is not OUAT's version of Captain Hook. I write him as I imagine a realistic, villainous pirate bent on revenge would be, and therefore he will occasionally do and say things that seem out of character for Canon-Hook. This is about where the story starts to get a little darker, and that will continue for future chapters as well.

 

* * *

 

Emma's world had narrowed to the ribbon of shore before her, the steady drumbeat of her heart rising on the wind, pulse throbbing in her ears. She knew that her assailant's left hand held the keen edge of a blade at her throat, and his right was pressed brutally against her chest, yet she felt curiously free of him. A gull on wing, her thoughts fled outward, lingering on the Captain who stood where land met sea, waves breaking around his legs, then gliding across the rippling bay to where the _Jolly Roger_ waited. These were things she didn't want to lose, _couldn't_ lose—but perhaps she didn't have to. Since when had she let the threat of death get in the way of what she desired? It was only a matter of waiting, of preparation. There was always a single instance where a path diverged; she simply had to be watchful and seize the moment.

* * *

"I suppose I should thank you, Hook," the man called, his voice ringing clearly above the wind. "Ten years I've been waiting for your ship to sail into port, and here you are."

Hook said nothing, merely flexed his fingers around the hilt of his cutlass, loosening muscles knotted with tension. From what he could discern of the stranger's features beneath the shadow of his cap, he would put him at roughly twenty years, too young to have any firsthand knowledge of the event from ten years ago that linked Hook to this port of no significance. In fact, Hook had made certain that every man aboard that vessel bled out; _no one_ should have firsthand knowledge.

"Come now. Surely you haven't forgotten? It was such a bonny day—my first outing on the _Defiance,_ you know."

A surge of hostility seethed through Hook's veins, though there was nary a twitch of his fingers to belie the unaffected demeanor he held. The knowledge that a soul had escaped that ship alive, and because of that misstep, a member of his crew— _Swan_ —now stood with a blade between them, was vexing to say the least.

Hook remembered the day well. It had been a fine day for sailing, the winds strong and clouds fleeting, though the memory of it was tainted still by the bitterness of failure, and now here he stood—ten years gone past—his triumph threatened once again.

"Well, you never forget your first," Hook quipped, knowing that if any had witnessed the massacre of the _Defiance_ and survived, it was a memory that would remain with them for years to come. He had been in particularly good form that day.

The man stiffened, twisting Emma in his grasp as he angled the knife into the fluttering pulse at the side of her neck. Hook watched as a thin trickle of blood cut across the white expanse of her skin. The moon cast a silver glow over the bay, and the trail of blood skimming the hollow of her collarbone seemed almost ethereal, inhuman. He watched as it soaked into the edges of her loosened chemise, chest tightening. She was too far from him.

"You would do well not to provoke me, pirate," the man hissed, his words laced with a touch of madness. "You have something that doesn't belong to you, and I have a duty to retrieve it."

"And what might I have of yours?" Hook spread his arms questioningly, moonlight-laced cutlass balanced easily in his hand, an old friend. His muscles crawled with the desire to move, to fight, but his wits held him in place. While there was a volatile edge to the stranger's words, he was still too focused, too composed. Any such movement would result in that blade drawing fully across her delicate neck.

"A letter that once belonged to the Commodore Phillips, something I am sure he would have preferred not fall into the hands of a filthy pirate, but as long as you do exactly as I say, I will not wet the sand with the lass's blood."

Hook's jaw tightened imperceptibly, his eyes once again drawn to the blood drying on Emma's chest, the stain of it disappearing into the burgundy of her gown, tainting the flawless skin he had pressed his lips to earlier that evening, the sweet taste of her still lingering on his tongue.

"You would do well to remember to whom you speak, boy. If you were aboard the _Defiance_ as you so claim, then you know that I had every man slaughtered, simply because I could. What makes you so certain the lass's life is worth anything more than a pleasant fuck to me, a warm diversion on a cold night?"

"Because if that were the case, you would have been rowing back to your ship the moment you realized what I wanted."

For a few breaths there is nothing beyond the tumbling rush of the sea between the two men, the wind dying down and leaving an emptiness of sound that betrays the truth.

"Name you terms," Hook muttered, the words leaving his mouth with no small amount of bitterness.

"Five steps forward, no more, and place the letter on the ground. When you've done that, get in your boat and start rowing."

"And the lass?"

"No harm will come to her if you do as I say." The man pauses, his eyes breaking the link with Hook and roaming downward, settling on the pale flesh on display below him, "but if you try anything, I'll do worse than kill her. I learned a few things that day on the _Defiance_ , pirate. I learned that you can make a person beg for death. Do you recall how you used that hook of yours on the Commodore—well, I haven't got a hook, but I dare say a knife will do just as well."

"I'll give you your agreement, _mate_ ," Hook spat, pointedly ignoring the rage that was slithering along his skin. "No trickery, with one condition. I'll return this letter to your keeping and be on my way, but only if you tell me where you were."

"Where I was?"

There was a moment of confusion on the man's face, but it disappeared quickly, replaced instead by a pained grimace that Hook recognized immediately. Embarrassment was evident in the tightened grip of the stranger's arm, the dig of his feet into sand, the shifting gaze. Hook had found his motivation, the one thing that had kept him chained to a dying port town for ten years— _shame._ It was a gamble his mind was proposing, and he without any loaded dice.

"I may be a pirate, but I'm quite perceptive. You look to be about twenty years of age, which means you were still a lad when I boarded the _Defiance,_ small enough to tuck yourself away somewhere safe. I'm curious to know where the rat I missed was holed up. Were you on the main deck, the quarter-deck?"

Hook's words had quickened, each laced with a frenzied need that plucked at the fraying strings of the other man's composure.

"Before my spoils are taken from me once again," Hook continued, his words piercing the space between them like knives, "I would know that I at least left an impression—that you can't sleep at night without seeing the blades of my men butchering every last one of your comrades. Tell me, can you still taste the stench of their innards spilling on deck when you close your eyes?"

"I should slit her throat right now, or better yet, cut these pretty lips from her face."

The man's voice was thick with torment, twisted with emotion he hadn't learned how to contain within his fragile shell of a body. Hook had firsthand experience with such anguish, and he knew that harnessing it was a feat that took many more years to master than this man had left. Hundreds, perhaps.

"Ah, but then you would be out your leverage, and with no leverage, I'm afraid we'd have no deal," the Captain parried. "You slit her throat. I get upset. You end up in pieces on the ground, and I _still_ get my treasure—and don't think carving her up will aid your cause. If you damage her, I'll have no reason to restrain myself. No, there's only one way you walk away from this encounter alive and well, so answer my question. _Where did you hide_?"

The man's hand trembled against Emma's neck, and for a moment, Hook worried he may have pushed him too far, sent him tumbling over the edge that would spell her death. The briefest flicker of relief passed over his features when the man spoke.

"There was a pile of worn cordage we'd been about to toss overboard, situated on the main deck below the quarter-deck. The Commodore ordered me to hide beneath it when he saw your ship approaching."

"And now here you stand, the quintessential coward hoping to find a peaceful night's rest with one act of bravery, but really, threatening the life of a lass? How does it feel to debase the honor you are so savagely trying to reclaim?"

The knife shook wildly at Emma's throat, dancing over wounded flesh, and Hook watched as another rivulet of blood welled upward. Her lips were drawn in a tight line, but her eyes were focused solidly on his, and in them he recognized the same determination she'd displayed that first night in his cabin—a woman willing to lie, steal, and—most importantly—fight for what she wanted. They could not wait for a better moment. He was already walking the fine edge of a blade and did not want to consider the cost of pushing the man too far.

"Five steps then?" Hook called, interrupting the turbulent thoughts that were surely rampant in the other man's head. Sheathing his cutlass, the sound swallowed by the rush of wind and water, he reached into the folds of his jacket and pulled out an aged envelope, brandishing it before him.

"One…"

Hook counted as he moved forward, taking care to make his steps as natural as possible while also gaining as much forward ground as he could. His eyes stayed fixated on the shadowed glare of the other man, hoping to give the impression that he was not planning on trying anything reckless. Though he wasn't looking at her directly, he could just see Emma's lips mirroring his as he spoke, counting.

* * *

Emma had never seen the Captain's movements more precisely executed, purposeful in their deception. The length of his stride and the bow of his shoulders were seemingly resigned, but Emma was well acquainted with the nuances of his tread and the tight pull of the muscles in his arms. The Captain was anything but reconciled with the situation at hand, and his body, taut as the string of a bow, was waiting for the right opportunity. Ignoring the erratic trembling of the blade at her throat, Emma fixed her gaze on Hook's face, silently counting along with him, knowing that he would understand her intention.

* * *

"Five…"

Hook settled his boots on the loose sand and broke his link with the other man, his eyes following the letter as he lowered it toward the ground, catching the luminous, green gaze that was now five steps closer than it had been before. The moment their eyes met, seconds before the letter would have left his grasp, there was movement.

He was already darting forward as Emma's elbow shot backwards into the vulnerable expanse of the man's stomach behind her, his body folding inward, knife jittering into the air and away from her neck, but just barely. Hook was on top of her, the air full of her scent as she turned her face to the side and dropped, the blade glancing her cheek as she slipped from the stranger's grasp. Hook's hand shot forward, knocking the other man's arm upward and latching on, using his momentum to spin himself around Emma, the weight of his body easily toppling his already unbalanced opponent to the ground. The Captain rolled him swiftly, one knee pressing roughly into his back, the other wedged against his side. His hook found the tender flesh of his neck while his hand made quick work of discarding the sword at the man's hip. It was with heady satisfaction that he yanked the man's head backward by his hair, his hook latching viciously into the malleable tissue behind his chin.

"I did warn you to remember with whom you were dealing," Hook hissed, his mouth hovering beside the ear of the trapped man. "It looks like I've gotten my treasure, my lass, and soon, I'll be getting some answers as well."

He could feel the slight shudder in the body beneath him, the useless struggle as his adversary tried to twist away from the hard knee in his back, but Hook had more years of experience than he could count on his side, and the thrill of victory was thrumming pleasantly beneath his skin.

"I imagine you'll probably go with silence," Hook continued, "but let's revisit your comment from earlier, shall we? I believe you were intimating a meeting of your knife with that lass's pretty lips. I'm rather fond of them, you see, and I took that suggestion quite personally, so perhaps I'll start with your tongue—keep you from uttering anymore deviant nonsense."

"I would think that contrary to your plan of action, pirate. Perhaps there is more bluff to your—"

The words Hook whispered against the other man's ear were low and eager, each one falling from lips twisted with a cold smirk.

"You are not only a coward, but a fool. You've made the grievous error of thinking that a man without a tongue cannot speak the truth. I assure you, that is not the case. I don't need words to wring the truth from you; you will _weep_ it for me."

The body beneath him tensed, but Hook merely pressed his knee more firmly into the man's spine, holding him firmly against the ground until his last struggle passed, every sound stolen from the air around him save for a single, frightened whimper. The pitiful sound ignited a wave of satisfaction that flared in his chest. He took pleasure in the fact that the man who had threatened a member of his crew was so close to death, and no less the coward.

Hook chanced a fleeting look to his side. He had been aware of Emma lowering herself to the ground in his periphery, but he had yet to fully look upon her, unsure of what he would read on her face when he did. She sat watching the scene before her, a piece of fabric she had torn from her dress held tightly against the wound on her neck, green eyes unreadable. He did not know what he had expected to see, but understood innately that it would not have mattered. His response would be the same regardless of the emotions written on her face. The urge to kill the man beneath him quickly and go to her was almost unbearable. Whether she was frightened at this previously unknown side of him, or curious, the need to touch her and be certain she was safe was unchanged, and that unsettled him. Reminding himself of the path he must tread, Hook turned his attention back to the man pinned beneath him.

"There are rules to this game, boy. Do you know them? I explained them to your Commodore all those years ago while you hid beneath a pile of rubbish."

"I'll tell you," the man croaked, his tongue darting out to wet dried lips. "Anything you ask, I'll answer honestly. Please, just…when you do it, do it quickly."

"Well," Hook quipped, his voice eerily light. "It _is_ nice to have things come easily for once. We'll see how you do before I agree to those terms. Let's begin. What do you know of Jacob Brinley?"

* * *

It was only with a great deal of restraint that Hook kept the frustration from spreading across his features. The man beneath him was of absolutely _no_ use. He knew that Brinley was a surgeon stationed aboard _The Marie Royale_ , and was aware that he had been an old friend to Commodore Phillips. Beyond that, however, he had no knowledge of any unique artifact the surgeon may have acquired, or what he may have done with said item. Hook could only hope that he would find more useful information among the lines of the letter he had abandoned when rushing to Emma's side.

In one swift motion he removed his hook and hand from the man's head, ignoring the whimper of pain that arose as muscles pulled taut for too long contracted. Before the other man could even entertain the notion of escape, Hook had trapped both of his wrists firmly between the bow of his hook and his fist and was jerking him to his feet.

"What are you doing?"

"I believe you've earned your terms."

There was no struggle as Hook led him towards the surf and forced him to his knees at its edge, the water breaking softly around him. As always, it seemed there was a corner of his mind aware of Emma's movements, the stir of her cloak against the sand as she rose and trailed him, the soft cadence of her breath as she moved to stand beside him. He looked straight ahead, his gaze resting on the _Jolly Roger_ , but from the corner of his eye he could just make out the soft tendrils of her golden hair playing in the wind.

It was the light touch of her hand on his shoulder that caught him by surprise, and he turned his gaze to hers, enquiring. The brush of her fingers was almost reverent, and the planes of her face were tranquil as she met his eyes. Everything about her in that moment seemed to surpass any notions he had of her. In that moment, the woman was a bloody mystery to him.

His intention had been to open the man's throat with his blade, a fitting yet generous end, he thought. After all, there were many that had fallen over the years in his quest for vengeance, not all of them deserving of the cruelty he had meted out, though their deaths had been necessary all the same. This death was to be his apology and gift to the boy, the only freedom he could give him from his tormented existence, but looking into Emma's eyes, realizing how easily the man at his feet could have torn her from this world—it changed everything.

Hook's hand was fisted in the man's hair before he could change his mind, the weight of an all-consuming anger driving his face into the sand and shallow water. Hook's body was unflinching as the surf churned beneath him, watching as a last, dying breath was expelled violently in a surge of bubbles. It may have been a few moments, or perhaps a few hours, the concept of time seemed to have abandoned him, but he didn't release his grip until he felt the calming touch of her hand on his, her fingers gently nudging beneath his and untangling them.

They knelt there together, a dead body between them, and Hook couldn't help but feel that the waves washing over them were an undeserved consecration.

It was a few moments before they spoke, both of their gazes turned toward the _Jolly Roger_ , but Emma's hand still lingered in his, and the heat between their palms was comforting. She was the first to break the silence, and he was glad her words were light and laced with humor, because _his_ thoughts, tucked securely away from the lull of the tide, had not been washed of their darkness.

"Was that your idea of a quick death, Captain?"

He met her eyes, noticing that the humor only went so far, that her eyes were swimming with something he didn't know how to place. There was a heaviness in his words he couldn't shake, perhaps even the slight hint of fear.

"After what he did to you, Swan," Hook murmured, his hand dropping hers and rising to brush the blood-stained skin of her neck. "Aye, that was a quick death."

He caught the slight tension in her jaw before she spoke, though her eyes were still full of that same emotion he didn't recognize.

"It's nothing to worry over, Captain. I've noticed that my trade seems to put me into the acquaintance of people that have a penchant for holding blades to my throat—" She pauses, the apprehension disappearing from her features as a small smile twists her lips. "—or hooks."

He can't help the grin the breaks across his face and is only vaguely aware of the strange notion that it is a _real_ smile, the type that makes his eyes crinkle at the corners.

"Would this be the trade of a thief, or a pirate, Swan?"

"Both," she says quietly.

His fingers linger at her neck, the smooth plains of her skin a beautiful study beneath the rough calluses born of years spent at sea. She still clutches the rag from her dress against the wound, and he moves his hand higher, batting her fingers away and gently peeling back the blood soaked material. He is relieved to see the wound has clotted, but the sight of the raw gash spurs another surge of anger within him; he tamps it down, the emotion feeling out of place in the space between them.

Her hands rest on the drenched lap of her gown, neck tilted and green eyes studying him as he reaches into his jacket and pulls out his flask. Raising it to his lips, he pulls the cork with his teeth and leans into her, a small smirk tugging at his lips as she angles backward, her hands scrambling in the surf to support her new position. Reaching upward, he places the curve of his hook against her chin.

"Tilt your head back. Slowly now, Swan. There's a good girl."

The hitch in her breathing and quick flush of her cheeks does not go unnoticed, and the throbbing that starts between his legs is a sharp reminder of the context in which he'd last said those words at the tavern, his fingers tracing the firm swell of her thighs that she had opened so willingly. He swallows, the flutter at her neck reminding him of his purpose.

Lowering the flask to her exposed neck, he allows a generous amount of rum to bathe the open wound, his eyes entranced as the sweet liquid rushes down her chest, disappearing into the gentle rise and fall of her breasts. He knows she hates the corset, that she can't stand the sensation of her movements being limited, but _bloody hell_ if she doesn't make quite the siren in one.

"Your _rum_ , Captain?" she asks, tilting her head back up to eye the liquid that meanders down her chest and soaks into her dress.

"Aye, and a bloody waste of it," he teases, quickly corking the flask and returning it to the folds of his jacket, hoping that the action cloaks the longing thrumming through his body. In that moment, he wants nothing more than to trace his tongue along the path of her neck, tasting the sweet mix of her until it leads him to the painfully enticing valley of her breasts.

He turns back to her, but she hasn't moved. The tide still swirls around arms that are splayed behind her for support, her chest thrust provocatively upward, as if she is waiting for him to clean up the mess he's made of her, the rum clearing muddied paths through dried blood. A sharp pang of desire shoots through him, his trousers obscenely tight, and he is not surprised to see that same longing reflected in her steady gaze. The attraction connecting them has always been tangible, humming fiercely in the air between them whenever they were alone, and he was certain they would end up in his bed at some point, but looking at her like this, the evidence of his near loss painted on her chest, he couldn't take her.

He wanted to; the thought of covering the body she was offering up to him with his own, pressing her down into the tide and claiming her right there—it was intoxicating. He could imagine the way she would feel wrapped around the length of him, her legs hiked around his hips as she came apart beneath him. He could practically taste the sweetness of her skin on his lips, and he wanted nothing more than to see if the reality was better than his imagination, to tear her skirts from her body and have her right there in the surf, but the wound at her neck and the dead body bobbing beside them were a reminder that she had almost died, and _that_ was a reminder that he shouldn't have cared—but he did, so instead, he rose unsteadily to his feet, not bothering to try to hide his arousal, and offered her his hand.

"Come, Swan," he murmured, his voice more composed than he imagined it would be. "I think it's time we head back to the ship."

 


	7. Chapter 7

 

The smooth pull of the line between her palms was soothing, fingers gently tugging and teasing the fibers as she searched for any signs of weakness or rot. Her mind drifted as the coil of rope behind her grew, the task at hand a simple one. She missed the freeing pitch of the ship as she traversed ratlines, the rigging of the _Jolly Roger_ having become as much a place of comfort to her as the trees of the Enchanted Forest had once been, but the Captain's orders were absolute, and she was to remain on deck until the wound at her neck had healed fully. The rhythmic glide of the rope paused as she raised a hand idly to her throat, her fingers toying with the edge of a black scarf tied securely around slowly knitting flesh.

_The rowboat stilled, the ceaseless rise and fall of his shoulders coming to an end as he brought his gaze up to meet her own, both of their faces bathed by the piercing light of the moon. The familiar silhouette of the Jolly Roger rested only a short distance away, and she wondered what had caused him to stop so suddenly. He hadn't said a single word to her after offering her his hand at the beach, merely retrieved the letter from where it had fallen and readied the boat, his eyes and movements as distant and preoccupied as she had ever seen them. In that moment, climbing into the small boat behind him as he took up the oars, she had an unsettling feeling that the pirate sitting across from her was more ghost than man._

_As the rowboat drifted, he made no movements toward her, just allowing his eyes to search hers as his hand rested on the oar, his hook wedged into a cunningly carved block on the other side that allowed him to row despite the metal appendage. The silence between them seemed suddenly heavy, the air for once devoid of the usual current that seemed to flow between them whenever they were alone. The lull of the ocean batted against the sides of the boat as they studied one another, and it was only after his gaze drifted to the gash at her neck that he spoke._

" _Come here, Swan."_

_She did not fail to notice that his tone was that of the pirate captain when he spoke, but the familiar, commanding timbre masked an undertow teeming with emotions she occasionally glimpsed behind the blue of his eyes. Regret, perhaps, and no small amount of weariness._

" _We'll have Cowery look over that before we weigh anchor, but you'll need a dressing for the night at least. Shift closer. This contraption is more of a nuisance than it seems," he said, inclining his head toward the device that held his hook._

_She moved nearer, her knees folding easily against the belly of the rowboat as she knelt before his seat, her face tilted to the side, eyes gazing across the glimmering expanse of open water that was doing nothing to keep her mind from the solid weight of his legs on either side of her torso. Her thoughts were too muddled by the last few hours to speak or make light of the situation. Exhaustion weighed relentlessly on her bones, and she found no space in her mind to do anything other than listen. Her eyes slipped shut of their own accord, the burden of keeping them open suddenly impossible. She recognized the heavy shift of his jacket as he reached for something within and then felt the soft brush of something winding loosely around her neck. His fingers worked gently against the thin fabric, her heart speeding ever so slightly at the graze of his skin against hers, but it was the familiar scratch of stubble against her jaw that had her eyes fluttering open, green meeting blue as he pulled back. It took her fatigue addled mind more than a few seconds to realize that he had knotted the scarf about her neck—with his mouth._

_She swallowed dryly and the edge of the scarf brushed against her collarbone, sending a shiver straight to her core. He did not miss the tremble at her lips, and neither did she miss the trace of something shameless in that gaze that was all man, and it did not go beyond_ either _of their notice that the air between them was once again charged with something vibrant and alive._

Emma's fingers returned swiftly to the length of rope she was working as the sound of someone approaching disrupted her reverie, though it took a few moments more for her thoughts to _also_ return to the task at hand. The footsteps drew closer, and the slight hitch in the left step followed by a grunt of discomfort betrayed the man's identity long before he passed the corner in which she sat on his way to the hatchway.

While she and Hook had been occupied down at the docks by their recently deceased acquaintance, the crew had been busy capitalizing on the brief shore leave, eager to part the locals from their coin and the women from their skirts. As with the majority of the pirates she knew, cheating at dice and cards was second nature to Avery, but _unlike_ most pirates, he was known to have fairly poor luck with the endeavor. From the tales the crew spun on their return, the young lad had started a bit of a brawl when he was not only accused of cheating, but of doing so badly, a slight far worse than merely getting caught in the eyes of a pirate. Though he'd come out of the row triumphant, he still bore more than a few aches and had been doing nothing but sulking about the ship for the better part of a week.

She couldn't help the indulgent smile that twisted the corner of her lips as she worked at her task. It was immensely gratifying that after only a month aboard the _Jolly_ ,she had been able to learn the tells and mannerisms of all of the crew members. The first week had been grueling, her body running on adrenaline and stolen moments of sleep, always anticipating the next scuffle that she knew would come the moment her vigilance failed her. Eventually, threats promised at the keen edge of her daggers had reinforced not only her skills, but her boundaries as well. Respect was not given aboard a pirate ship, it was earned by tooth and blade, by gold and silver. It had not been a matter of pride that she prove her place among these men, but one of survival. These were men unacquainted with the idea of something beautiful _and_ deadly, and they had never encountered a woman who could not be bedded for some amount of gold or threatening words. The Captain may have brought her on as a crew member, but he had made it clear it was her responsibility to prove that she was more useful with a blade in her hand than a bed at her back. By the time they had made their next harbor after sailing from Port Bastisse, Emma had more than proved her ability to defend herself, and the loot she procured each time they went ashore had vanished any lingering discontent.

Once the men had accepted her unwaveringly as one of the crew, as an equal, it had been simple enough to watch and learn their habits and traits, to incorporate their footsteps and murmurings into the rasp and sway of the ship that had become her home. They were the blood and muscles of the _Jolly Roger_ , and Emma wanted to know them as well as she knew the rigging and passageways of the ship itself, because with understanding came foresight, and that was something she had never quite attained with Columbine. The memory of what her lack of understanding had led to was bitter. She would not let it happen again.

He thoughts flickered briefly back to the docks, a memory full of moonlight and fear. There had been a moment of lightness in her heart, and she had allowed it to eclipse her caution. The blade was at her throat before she heard anything at all. She had failed in that moment, and the price had been her life resting precariously in the hands of another, or _hand_ , rather.

It had been a moment of terrifying uncertainty, because though she had come to learn the motivations of his crew, the Captain was still a riddle she could not work loose. Reading the thrill in the dance of his blade during combat, the anger scorched across every inch of his face when challenged, the lust in his gaze when his eyes fell on her, these were hints of the man that came easily enough, but there was always something writhing beneath, something deep and unearthly she could not fathom.

If the crew was the blood coursing through the planks and lines of the ship, then the Captain was her heart. Emma could _feel_ the pulse, the beating center of the great beast beneath her, but she needed to understand it as well, to know the language of the ship and her Captain as well as she knew her own.

The Enchanted Forest had been her home once, a place where time had seemed to still so that she could reside within an unchanging moment of innocence. When Columbine betrayed her, leaving Emma to her fate at the hands of those they stole from, that interlude had shattered. She understood that the forest had become something else to her, and that she could not linger. An overwhelming desire to discover the world grew in her heart, to run until she caught that elusive dream of the person she wanted to become.

The decision to seek adventure had risen eagerly in her chest, and though she had never left the familiar confines of the Enchanted Forest, she could feel something primal and unfathomable call to her. The idea of seeking the port cities was a reasonable one, but she found that as she traveled south, the sea whispered to her as she slept, pulling her ever onward with the slow, inevitable drag of the sun moving over land. The closer she got to the southern ports, the lighter her heart became. The moment she saw the glistening, ice-blue expanse of water before her, she knew that it was in its embrace, through freedom, revelry, and the never-ending journey to the horizon, that she would learn of herself.

All of the pieces she had been searching for, she had found them aboard the _Jolly Roger_. She found them among the crashing waves of a tempestuous sea as the ship pitched and swayed, lit by bursts of lightning. She found herself in the exotic markets, the clash of steel, the beauty of the moon full over a silvered ocean, all of them pieces of a woman she didn't know she had the strength to be.

Her thoughts turned back to the Captain, and she could not help but feel that if she could not learn him as she had the planks of the ship, the rhythm of the crew as they worked together—as she had learned herself—then she would lose everything.

She had gone to his cabin that night, her neck still tingling with a mixture of pain and provocation where his stubble had brushed her skin as he secured his scarf. Other than Pidgin, the lookout for the evening, they were the only crew on deck, but Hook had retired immediately to his quarters, and there were no distractions for Emma as she lay in her berth. The sway of the ship, soothing though it was, was not enough to chase the troublesome thoughts from her mind, and she found her feet carrying her to the hatch of the Captain's cabin.

She didn't want to think about the knife at her throat, the sharp, cloying scent of the strange man pressed to her back. She didn't want to hear the hiss of air bubbling around the mass of hair tangled beneath Hook's steely grip. She wanted to wash the disquieting thoughts from her head with the familiar scent of leather and spice that permeated him. She wanted to ease the ache between her legs, because the ache in her chest was too deep and unknown. She wanted to feel the bite of his teeth at her neck and the jarring impact of his hips against her. She wanted him to steal the churning thoughts from her mind and replace them with the thrumming, writhing tension she knew he could bring to her.

She wanted all of those things, needed them more desperately in that moment than she had ever needed anything, but as her fingers wrapped around the latch, the sound of glass shattering followed by a muffled roar of frustration stilled her. He was almost certainly drunk, and while the thought of him taking her with the ferocity of a man silently raging made her core throb with anticipation, the apprehension that she would see too much in his gaze, that the mask of her own fears and thoughts would be evident in the bottomless blue of his eyes as he crashed into her, it sent her fleeing back to the safety of her berth.

As she settled back against her mattress, the creak of the ship finally luring her into a fitful rest, she understood one more thing about the Captain of the _Jolly Roger_. There was something stormy and wild beneath the face he presented to the world, and she was in just as much danger of drowning in him as she was in her own thoughts, perhaps more so.

* * *

Midday peaks and the sun gleams wickedly overhead, stalking the _Jolly Roger_ as she sails. Though Emma woke long before the sky lost its twilit hue, there had been no respite even then. The scorching heat had kept company with them throughout the night, making for a restless and uneasy crew come morning.

Her crown of golden curls is pulled back, tucked and plaited into a careless knot that does little to relieve the heat prickling across her skin. Trails of sweat slip down her forehead, tracing the furrowed arc of her brow and bleeding beneath the curve of the spyglass as she presses it to her eye, scanning the horizon. She stills her breath. The wind, though it carries only the mildest sensation of relief, is full in the sails, and with each inhalation she catches the scent of leather and sweat tinged with the slightest trace of ink. These are the moments that terrify her. She should not be able to tell that he spent his evening updating logs and maps. She should not be able to _smell_ the ink and parchment on his skin, but she does, and she can. Whether he is locked away in his cabin, or hovering behind her, the man is infernally distracting.

His hook rests idly on the railing at her side, but his hand is firm and insistent at the small of her back, the only point of contact between them. She tries not to dwell on how pleasant the warmth from his palm feels in comparison to the heat that crawls over the rest of her body. How he expects her to concentrate on anything when he looms behind her so persistently is beyond her understanding.

"What do you see, Swan?"

His voice is low, curious, and far closer than she had anticipated as she sweeps the spyglass toward the bow, his words a whisper against the sensitive shell of her ear. She pointedly ignores the pleading twinge between her thighs and focuses instead on the spread of the horizon she can see through his spyglass. She understands that these light, carefree moments—fleeting instances where he is a mentor, simply a man who breathes the sea, instead of a pirate captain, a killer, or even a lover—are rare. She finds that sharing them with him eases a tension from her shoulders that she didn't know she carried.

Once she turns her gaze in the correct direction, it is simple enough to spot the shapes emerging in the distance, blackened spires that rise against the cloudless sky of the horizon. Some of the formations are low and worn, but others twist upwards like the jagged teeth of some forgotten leviathan petrified by time and salt.

She lowers the spyglass and searches the horizon free of aid, hand shielding her eyes from the blinding glare of the sun, but the rock formations are not yet visible to the naked eye.

"I see…cliffs. They are strange, rising straight out of the sea—just barely portside and forward."

_If we continue on this course and the wind stays true, we'll be bearing down on them in only a couple of hours,_ was what she wanted to add, but he hadn't enquired as to her thoughts on that matter, and she didn't want to disrupt this quiet moment with concerns over their course. He had never led his ship and crew wrong yet.

"That's a good eye," he murmurs, his breath ghosting against her ear once again as his hook shifts on the railing, nudging the spyglass she had lowered. "What else do you see?"

Hook's question and insistence that she resume her observation leaves her puzzled even as she raises the spyglass once again to her eye. Though she had thought the jagged stone peaks they sailed towards were the pressing matter, the crux of his lesson, perhaps there was more. He would not press if there were nothing else to see.

She studies the distant view intently, paying close attention to the water that hugs the base of each peak. The sea seems unusually calm, caressing the steeply rising monoliths rather than surging and slapping against the intrusion of stone on sea. She swings the spyglass wide, her breath catching in her throat when she notices the shadows that linger beneath the serene water for leagues on either side of the strange formations. There is no fight in the sea, because there is no _depth_.

"There's something else," she mumbles, suddenly less confident in her assessment. It is not natural for reefs to stretch that far, let alone so evenly beneath the water that there is nary a hint of them to be seen, but if anyone understands _unnatural_ can indeed exist, it is her, and so she continues. "I think there are…reefs, but they stretch farther than I can tell. The sea is too still, too dark. There is no pull to it."

"You've quite taken to a life at sea, haven't you, Swan? There's not many sailors that would concern themselves over waters too calm when faced with those hellish cliffs."

Emma could hear the approval in his tone and was glad he wasn't able to see the timid smile that tugged at her lips, pleased that she had passed the test he had apparently laid out before her. It reminded her of that first year in the Enchanted Forest, learning all of the tricks and skills that would help her survive.

"What are they—the cliffs, the reef?"

"For most men—death, but I'm one hell of a captain."

* * *

_One hell of a Captain._

Even if Emma hadn't possessed an uncanny ability for catching liars the moment they opened their mouths, she would have known his words were nothing less than the truth. She had weathered far too many raging seas aboard the _Jolly_ , and plundered more than enough merchants ships beside him to dismiss his abilities as something so mundane as luck.

Once the twisted spires of stone had finally emerged from the nothingness of the horizon, blacker now then she remembered them, it became clear to Emma that this journey was not a new one for the crew. All of the men worked with eyes and hands carefully tending the ship, the bawdy shanties that normally lightened their work absent, ears turned instead toward the Captain, responding as if the devil himself were at their heels when Hook shouted a command from the helm.

If a stranger were to witness the hushed, solemn air that lingered on deck, they would mistake it for the pervasive miasma of self-doubt, or even fear, but Emma knew all of the men aboard well enough to understand the shift. In waters as treacherous as these, they not only gave the respect due to the Captain, but to the dangerous path they must sail as well. They trusted their Captain to guide the ship safely, but knew that he needed their unbroken attention to do so.

Watching the seamless change from jaunty to resolute as they sailed, the unity with which the men worked and turned to Hook for guidance, Emma thought that perhaps this was as close to a family as she would ever get—a lot of filthy, thieving, cheating pirates that she could trust only so long as their goals aligned—and she perfectly content in the midst of them.

As the rest of the crew worked, Emma leaned over the portside railing, watching the waves alongside the ship with wonder, green eyes wide and mouth frozen in a slow, disbelieving smile. Ordinarily, she would have been aloft, keeping a watchful eye and aiding with the rigging, but her neck was still on the mend, and Hook was insistent she remain on deck for at least the next few days.

She was painfully aware that his eyes were focused on her, his gaze sending a rush of heat and electricity across the sensitive skin of her neck. One stolen glance in his direction had been enough to ascertain that he was not angry she was shirking her duties, but was pleased and amused at her response to the strange phenomenon she was witnessing in the waters around the ship.

The sea floor swept gradually upwards, a motionless crescendo of stone and reef that spread slowly into a plateau as they sailed, finally halting its climb and spreading into an even field a mere five feet beneath the surface of the calm waters. Emma had expected to see the colorful growth of seaweed and sponges, fish darting among the swaying fronds of anemones, but instead there was nothing other than the dull gray of stone and the bleached white of dead coral. It occurred to her that surely this could not be natural, this dead stretch of the depths wrenched upwards, scorched of life. She wondered what magic could have been powerful enough to do such a thing, and for what reason.

As the _Jolly Roger_ sailed nearer to the towering stones, Hook kept the ship carefully centered in the only channel deep enough to accommodate them, a means, he explained, that would become even _less_ accommodating as they reached the shadow of the mid-ocean cliffs.

Emma watched, her breath stilled in her throat, as the shallow sea floor surrounding the ship crept ever inward, ledges of sharp reef and stone mere feet from the hull on either side. She could not keep at bay the insidious worry that whatever had caused this upheaval of the ocean floor so many years ago would suddenly surge back to life, thrusting rock forward to crush the ship in its embrace.

It felt like the work of eons, but before long Hook guided the _Jolly_ between the two largest of the spires, and the breath of relief that passed through the crew as they moved into the narrow lead was audible. Tension slipped from Emma's shoulders, and she turned to share the grin she could not keep from her lips with him, infinitely pleased when he quirked his eyebrow in response.

The water opened slightly around them in the channel, not enough to change direction, but enough to give the ship a few more feet of breathing space on either side as she moved, the glint of deep blue water leeward teasing them on.

Emma left her perch at the railing to move to the forecastle, wanting to be as close to the promise of the open water as she was able. She was glad to be rid of the strange, shallow sea Hook had skillfully navigated, but the jagged spires of stone now pressed in on all sides, and her loathing of confined spaces was beginning to itch at her skin, clawing its way to the surface. She forced her thoughts away from the scarred cliffs that lined the passage like slumbering giants and focused on the glistening hint of the open sea ahead.

The sea was freedom.

* * *

It had only taken a single moment for everything to change.

_I'm one hell of a Captain._

As Hook had whispered those words against her ear, there had been no room for doubt in her mind that they would make it through the cliffs alive and well, had relied on the fact that he was not only as capable as he bragged, but that he had sailed these waters before and knew them as well as he knew the back of his own hand. In her heart, she had recognized that there was far more to the Captain than a streak of uncommon luck.

How ironic it was then, she thought, her arm cradling the tender knot of bone and muscle that was her ribcage, that is was something as mundane as _luck_ that was responsible for their current predicament.

There had been no whisper of warning, only the sudden scrape of rope against stone and the heavy thunk of bodies rolling onto the deck. Her peripheral vision danced with flashes of movement as she spun to face the main deck, her hands already seeking the familiar weight of her blades. She was swift on her feet, but the narrow channel and looming stone peaks, wicked and black as they reached towards the sun, were disorienting in the haze of panic that arose at the unexpected attack.

A familiar sensation crawled beneath the surface of her skin, one she had been fighting against from the moment the _Jolly Roger_ passed into the narrow passage between the cliffs. The blue sky above suddenly seemed impossibly far, a fading dream that would dissipate and leave her surrounded by the heavy weight of stone and darkness. Beneath her feet, the sway of the ship was comforting, a lullaby calling her back to someplace safe and well-known, but her mind was full of the pressing walls of stone and air so thick it choked her lungs. Her nostrils filled with the scent of damp, musty cardboard, her hands beating senselessly against a door that wouldn't open no matter how she screamed or pleaded. The room was too dark, too still. Its sides pressed against her like the walls of a coffin.

Everything pushed against her, crushing her. There was no sea beneath her, no strip of blue sky above.

She didn't see the man swinging toward her from the end of a rope, his face twisted in violent concentration as he leveled a belaying pin at her head.

It was the desperate cry of a familiar voice that pulled her out of her nightmare and back to the deck of the _Jolly Roger_ , her eyes widening with panic even as her body reacted instinctively, twisting to the side just as the pirate arced past her, the metal pin in his hand connecting solidly with her chest before he loosened his grip on the rope and tumbled to the deck.

Luck.

The word turned itself over tauntingly in Emma's head as she struggled to regain her footing, to push the pain blooming at her side to a distant place where the price of a distraction wouldn't be her life. Her vision swam before her as she rose, the deck of the ship nothing more than an indistinct, twisting mass of bodies and blood. Muffled screams barely broke through the fog that billowed between her ears, the screams and grunts of men she knew, men she _ate_ with, lost somewhere beneath the pounding of her own pulse.

A welcome rush of adrenaline surged through her veins, her vision slowly clearing as the searing pain at her side dulled to a tolerable ache. Her senses returned to her fully just as the pirate who had knocked her to the deck advanced, his eyes gleaming with the thrill of a fight. A metal belaying pin danced between his fingers, his stance careless as he moved forward, untroubled by the prospect of taking down a woman half his size.

Within the first three steps he took, Emma had catalogued his weaknesses, his pattern of movement. He was a large man, the type who was accustomed to relying on his weight and strength rather than speed or balance. He led with his body squared to her, his weight flat on his feet with no play in his muscles or joints. On a good day, these were drawbacks she would have been able to exploit to even the fight, to anticipate his movements and keep out of his grasp as she made good use of her daggers on the more vulnerable parts of his body, but this was far from a good day. Her ribs throbbed, a nagging reminder that her agility was surely compromised, and though she _saw_ all of his weaknesses, she was far too weak herself to take full advantage of them.

The pirate's grip on the belaying pin tightened, and Emma was barely able to stumble backwards as he lurched forward, his weapon curving through the air where she had been standing. Ignoring the pain that lanced through her chest, she dropped to the side and rolled, hearing the whoosh of air behind her as he followed through with a second sweep of his makeshift club.

A hot wave of panic burst through her chest and traveled down her arms, her fingers trembling as she scrambled forward. She was too slow, her maneuvering falling short of where she needed to be. Her ribs were hindering her more than she had anticipated, and she was cut off from the rest of the ship by his wide stance and reaching arms.

She made a frantic dash forward, hoping to surprise him and duck beneath his arm, but her breath was forced from her chest as a large hand grabbed the neck of her shirt and yanked her backwards, tossing her roughly to the deck at his feet.

Emma blinked away the darkness that was edging in on her vision and rolled onto her back, staring up at the last face she would see before she died. Her arms and legs were as heavy as stone, and she wondered how quickly her body would sink to the bottom of the sea if there were any left alive to give her a proper burial. The world and her breathing slowed together, her eyes focused on the pirate as he raised his weapon once more, prepared to end the scuffle with a final blow to her head.

She had expected that her mind would be racing with thoughts in those few moments before death, but there was nothing save for the glint of the sun on the belaying pin as it dragged through the air, and the feeling that this wasn't what she wanted, that she wanted another minute, another hour. She wanted forever.

It was the jarring appearance of a blade sprouting from the man's shoulder that brought the world back to its proper speed. Emma blinked in confusion as a thin web of blood slid down the exposed tip of the cutlass and soaked into the pirate's shirt, the belaying pin falling harmlessly to the deck beside her head.

Everything was still in that moment, her body keenly aware of the sway of the ship as it drifted, the taste of sweat on her tongue, the glistening cutlass immobilizing the pirate who had tried to kill her, and the vicious curve of a hook at his neck.

Hook.

Her assailant still lived, his hands clawing at the rent in his chest where the cutlass was twisted and wedged upward through his ribs, an immovable stake pinioning him mercilessly to the Captain's chest, the hook at his throat ensuring further restraint.

She crawled to her feet, her body trembling with the effort. Pain flared in her torso as she turned to face the scene before her.

"Quite the dashing rescue, Captain," she grimaced, her face drained of color as much as any trace of lightness was drained from her voice, her words shaken and flat.

She wanted desperately to collapse against the railing behind her, to find some support other than her own two legs, but Hook's face as he leaned around the man before him was shadowed with darkness, and she could sense that deep, writhing thing within him that sometimes crept to the surface. Splatters and streaks of blood had already dried along the sharp line of his jaw, and his leathers were glossy with the sticky fluid.

"Finish the job, Swan."

His voice was rough and low, the air between them vibrating with something barely contained.

"What?" she croaked out, her brow furrowing in confusion.

"Captain's orders, Swan. I've done half the work already. Now finish him off."

Emma's eyes flickered to the man impaled on Hook's cutlass, alive for the time being, but defenseless and unable to move.

"He's already there, Captain," she whispered, wanting the words to go unnoticed by the crew moving about the deck. She knew she should not question him, certainly not when he had that cold gleam in his blue eyes, but found she could not keep the words in. "The second you remove that blade, he's done for."

Hook lowered his voice, his eyes never losing hers as he spoke, his words meant only for her.

"You've shown us before, lass, that you're not to be trifled with, that you're one of the crew. Now show me you're a _pirate_ , Emma. This man set out to kill you, to splatter that pretty head of yours across the deck of my ship. We all have a path, Emma, things that we want. You can't let anything keep you from it, and this man would have done so. Now you have to take everything from him. It's the only way, Emma. Show us you belong here. Show me."

All of the words, whispered and tender, yet so at odds with the darkness in his gaze, they struck a cold fear in her heart, though she knew not of what.

Emma had killed before.

Her mind returned to the drunken fool that had caught her attempting to escape at the wagon trap, her blade running through his gut with ease. That had been different. If she hadn't killed him, she would have been torn apart by an ogre, the same as all of them. Killing that man, it had been a matter of survival, but in this moment, she was alive and well. There was no impetus to kill the man before her. He would die shortly anyways of the wounds that Hook had given him.

She turned Hook's words over in her mind. He was giving her cause, motivation.

_Show me you're a pirate, Emma._

She valued her life more than the life of this man, with no shade of doubt, and she would kill him without a second thought if that were the choice at hand, but did she value her desires more than this man? Were the things she _wanted_ , the person she wanted to be worth more than his life—worth enough to seek retribution for even the _attempt_ at halting her course?

All of the moments of importance in her life, she always felt that they had sprung from luck alone. Her fingers had brushed a small flaw in the back of the jewelry box from which she'd stolen the bean—luck. Opening the portal, finding Columbine, both random acts of luck as well. Falling into the wagon trap, the arrival of the ogre that killed her captors—luck.

She was tired of feeling that her life was driven by things that happened to her, through no choice of her own, that her survival was determined by luck. She wanted control. She wanted to feel that she was making a decision that would matter, that would change her course.

The man before her, he had made a choice to try to kill her, and now Hook was presenting her with another choice.

_Show me you're a pirate, Emma. Show me you belong._

Emma didn't notice the pain in her side as she staggered forward, didn't hear the whisper of her blade as she drew it from the sheathe. Meeting her Captain's eyes, she reached upward and slid the dagger easily into the tender flesh of the man's neck, a thin trickle of blood escaping the wound and dripping from the fine, metal edge.

She didn't flinch at the hot spray of blood as she yanked her blade free, merely kept her gaze locked on Hook's as the body between them wept its life across the deck.

In that moment, she saw the two men he had become, the man who guided her that morning, his hand firmly at her back, and the Captain wiping blood from his cutlass on the shirt of the corpse between them. She realized that whether it was with teasing words at the helm, or a blood-soaked sword, he would find a way to lead her to herself.

She thinks she would not have him any other way.

It's not long before Hook has the crew tending to the mess left on deck and is making his way back to the helm, striding carelessly over the remnants of his bloody dash from the stern to the forecastle.

Emma sits at the bow of the ship, nursing her aches with a thoughtfully provided flask of rum and waiting for the open waters to welcome them back.

It does not escape her thoughts that something of herself _did_ die in that passage, but as the _Jolly Roger_ sails free of its clawing, stone grasp and into open waters, she knows that she has gained something infinitely more important, a hand in her own fate.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've officially caught up here on AO3 with regards to Fallen and Wanting, and will continue to add some of my other work from FFnet as I get the time. This last chapter was a beast to write, and I do hope that you guys enjoy. As always, I love hearing what everyone's thoughts are- reviews, critiques, or even questions are always welcome. -Fara

It was the lingering memory of a heady sweetness that woke him, the taste of it fading as quickly as the dream that had been its vessel, leaving him with nothing more than the rough whisper of his fingertips pressed to his lips.

He shifted on the bed, tossing blankets heedlessly to the floor and sighing in relief as the night air, cool and cutting, danced over his heated skin, soothing the fluttering beat of his heart and stilling the unease that twisted his gut. It would be several hours more before the first traces of dawn crept across the sea, and the cabin was cast in the murky grey of twilight, a pale wash of moonlight filtering through the windows to bathe the floor of his quarters, illumining the table where he'd left a scattering of logs and records.

There was something about the haphazard splay of parchment that turned his mind to a night long past, far too many months gone to stir his recollection of a season or port, yet all too recent to be lost to the fog of decades passing. There had been a woman—the last woman he'd had stretched across its worn surface, the soft flutter of parchment filling the air as he cleared the table with his hook, the low rasp of his breathing punctuated by the piercing shatter of his inkwell as it struck the floor. His hand was at her back, taut and unrelenting, her slim body trembling as he pressed it into the unforgiving wood, his knee spreading her thighs as he tugged at his laces, lowering his trousers just enough to free himself, every muscle in his body tensed with emotions he could not bring himself to face in moments such as these.

There had been a woman, but he couldn't recall her face. He never could, not a single one of them, and there had been many. Treasures though they may have been to some other man, to him they were nothing more than a warm body in which he could drown and forget, even if it were only for the night.

Over the years he'd sampled them all—women with tresses as fiery as the sun at dawn, cheeks and breasts dusted with freckles, lasses with hair as black as the most fertile earth, their eyes the warm brown of honeyed wood.

They clung to him in taverns, captivated by his charm, by the promise of adventure—of danger, perhaps—and in no small part by the fine trinkets he wore and the weight of his gold. Their supple bodies would meld against his, knowledge fingers caressing his hook and teasing the hard evidence of his need, confident that theirs would be an evening of pleasure _and_ good fortune. He would drink his fill, the spicy burn of rum an old companion, and study their features, searching the lines of their faces in the hope he would be able to cling to some remembrance of it through the long hours of the night, but as always, there was nothing.

The moment he had them—the _moment_ he allowed himself to seek oblivion in the warmth of another—no matter whether he took them on their knees, their back, or against the cold stone of a tavern wall, they disappeared. He would open his eyes and find that it was not the eager body of a young tavern wench his fingers marked, but _hers_.

_His Milah._

Suddenly it was _her_ sable curls fanned across the table in his cabin, _her_ hips to which he anchored himself, _her_ airy moans that drifted upward as the ship heaved beneath them. It was always her he remembered.

He took her roughly. He took all of them roughly, forcing every last wretched echo of his resentment and anguish into the hot clasp of the body shuddering beneath him. He had nothing else to give.

_Milah._

He loved her, craved her, and yet thrumming in his veins was a thickening hatred for her facsimile that would lie stretched beneath him, but save the worn sketch of her countenance—faded beneath the caress of his fingers, years stacked upon years—the ghost of her was the only thing he had left. It was the only antidote he had for the memories time was slowly stealing from him, the only way he could remember her face, the lilt of her voice.

It was a scourge and a blessing, seeing Milah in every woman he took, a familiar burden he had been shackled beneath for hundreds of years. The first passing of seasons without her had been the most grueling, and he near to his worst, only the demons of his childhood rivaling the vulnerability and helplessness that pervaded his every breath. His desperation drove him, and it soon became his custom to seek a woman in each place they made port, to chase the loss of her into the darkest recesses of his mind with drink and pleasure, to revel in the fantasy that she lived still, that it truly _was_ her body moving against his, soothing his heart and easing the agony that nested there—

—but she was long since dead, perhaps even her bones worn to dust by the harsh stroke of the sea— _gods, he could only hope—_ her heart crushed upon the deck of his very own ship.

He had learned quickly—odd that he saw it as such now, though he supposed living for centuries could distort the meaning of time for any man—that to seek the ghost of her was the path to madness. There was _already_ the taint of madness in his bones, this he knew, but chasing her memory in strange women—it was the fine edge of a blade to tread, on either side a sucking, reaching insanity from which he would never claw his way back, and if there was one thing Hook could not allow, it was for his quest for revenge to go unanswered, to be forgotten so easily in the face of the temptation to simply let go of his mind and reason. He had come to understand that he could either keep her—the fantasy of her, as it were—or he could have vengeance.

He chose the latter.

As the years passed, he sought the company of women less and less, turning to their welcome embrace only when he was at his most desperate, when he tried to recall the color of her eyes and found he could not, when he whispered her name into the shadows and was unable to remember how his _own_ had fallen from her lips, when he needed a reminder of _why_ he was dragging out the tormented existence his life had become.

And though he could not number the passing of days that stretched between the present and that fateful encounter on the deck of his ship, one thing had remained constant—he still woke each morning with the thought of Milah foremost in his mind and the long-forgotten memory of her skin at his fingertips, his arm searching the empty bed beside him—

—until he hadn't.

His fingers brushed once more across his lips, a meager attempt to lure back to him the lost threads of the dream that had bathed him in warmth and sweetness, his heart full of a thrilling desire he could not quite set aside despite the enveloping darkness of his cabin and the cold stretch of his bed.

Something had crept into his life and upset the delicate balance he maintained, weaving and insinuating itself among the deepest threads of his mind, and though the details of his dream were as incorporeal to him as fog at sea, the feelings he was left with upon waking were the fine sheen of moisture left clinging to his skin at its passing—they were all too familiar. He recognized this _something_.

It unsettled him.

 _She_ unsettled him.

 _Emma Swan_.

The thought of her clung to the edges of his mind, commandeering his thoughts and dividing his attention in ways he could scare afford.

She was infernally distracting, that woman.

He had chosen to stay aboard that evening, everything from the relentless press of the sky on his back to the bitter taste on the wind warning him that he was too vulnerable that night, too permeated with resentment and melancholy. If he were to join his men ashore, he would surely yield to the weakest part of himself and slake his thirst in something other than the hollow belly of a bottle, and to do that now—when he was so _bloody_ close, when he needed his mind clear and unencumbered—would be disastrous, so he stayed on deck.

Then Emma Swan had dropped into his life, quite literally over the railing of his ship, and for the first time in hundreds of years he could _feel_ the capricious tides of luck surging back to him—not because he was taken with her, appealing though she was in her drenched attire, her backside pressed firmly against him, but because she was the missing piece he needed—a skilled thief.

An _expendable_ skilled thief.

It was a role that wanted filling, the only other experienced thief aboard being himself.

For the past twenty years he had been spurred onward by the knowledge that a treasure once stolen from him, something he had long considered to be lost to him forever, may be within his grasp still—a treasure that would grant him the means to finally reach the Crocodile and avenge Milah. He'd spent the better part of those years seeking its trail, studying long-forgotten correspondences, torturing knowledge from those he deemed useful, and dispatching any who stood in his path.

It had been his intention to use her to retrieve yet another clue along the trail that spanned hundreds years, a pawn who would procure for him what was needed with only minimal risk to himself. He was, after all, a pirate first and foremost—a survivor above all else. If she were to complete her task successfully and survive, he would surely have found another use for her, but if she were to die, well, then it was no more a burden than having to fetch the missive for himself, something he had been near to doing anyways before she boarded his ship.

He hadn't anticipated that somehow the lass would manage to disrupt and distort every one of his well-laid intentions.

He hadn't meant to be impressed by her, but it turned out she was a cunning lass, as quick with her sharp tongue as she was with a blade. Though he would never speak the words aloud, she had bested him that night in his cabin, fleeting though it was, when she teasingly alluded to the poison that may have been gracing her skin.

He hadn't expected to feel the weight of time lift from his shoulders when he caught sight of her aloft from his place at the helm. She moved as naturally among the rigging as if she had been born a pirate, so content perched high above the deck that he often spied her there on nights when sleep eluded her, the moonlight glancing off the gold of her curls as if she were a breathing treasure caught between sea and sky.

He hadn't meant to _care_. It certainly was not within his best interest to care, but he knew he did the moment she quickened her step and raced across the sand towards him as he stood waiting in the surf, the wind tossing her locks wildly behind her, green eyes alive with exhilaration. Her lips were twisted upward with unrestrained joy that—for a moment—made him feel human again.

He hadn't been prepared for the chilling shroud of anger and helplessness that settled over him as he watched her forced against the chest of another, blade glinting at her throat. Though her fate had once been inconsequential to him, he found that he could not will himself to simply climb aboard the boat and row back to the _Jolly Roger_ , the missive she had stolen for him tucked safely into his long coat. Instead, every instinct he had was screaming that to do so, to leave her that way, would be a betrayal.

He could not betray her. He could not leave her, intentions be damned.

Though he had sensed the mutual attraction that first night in his cabin, he hadn't known that the air would come to writhe and pulse between them like some living beast, crackling as if there were lightning barely constrained beneath the soft expanse of her skin, released the moment his fingertips met the warmth of her flesh, connecting them in a way he had never before experienced.

And only once before had he felt the world drop away from him in a single, heart-stopping moment in the way it did when his gaze passed over the sea of clashing weapons between them, eyes locked on the pirate swooping toward her from the cliffs, club held at the ready. He knew he was going to watch her die, and found that he had no intention of allowing that to happen.

_Not again._

There were times when he thought that perhaps Emma Swan was more of a pirate than he was, stealing so effortlessly things that were never meant to be hers, and as his fingers brushed his lips once more, remembering the sweetness that had pervaded his dreams, he was unable to quell the fear that what she had stolen from him that night was gone forever.

* * *

Emma eased open the hatch and climbed onto the main deck, her bare feet steady and sure against the slick wood as she made her way to the rigging, needing desperately to banish the thoughts that were crashing against her skull with the sway of the ship that so often brought her peace, needing to replace the frantic crawl of heat beneath her skin, stinging and sharp, with the cool kiss of the wind.

When sleep had finally managed to claim her, dragging her eyelids closed against the swinging accoutrements of the crew's quarters, echoes of the past had been lying in wait—a narrow face beneath mussed curls, fingers pressed against a calm, cool heart in farewell, a figure slipping through the trees—then older, hazier images of slamming doors, angry voices and receding footsteps that tread a path through her unconscious mind, leaving her drenched in a cold sweat, memories of being left behind, abandoned, terrified and alone flashing across her closed lids as she woke with a start. The nightmares were an old companion, though lately they were visiting far more frequently than was normal, her thoughts still full of them each morning as she dragged herself to her duties.

They had been sailing the open waters for weeks since their ill-fated passage through the stone spires, and _still_ she couldn't shake the knowledge from the back of her mind that they were six hands short on deck, that three bunks lie unoccupied behind her, their emptiness an unwelcome reflection of the nightmares that woke her, guilt snapping at her heels.

In some way, she couldn't help but feel that it was her fault, her burden to bear. Pidgin's eyes were as sharp as his sword was slow, but he hadn't given them any warning. He hadn't _seen_ anything to give warning for. Though it was likely the crew that boarded them simply had a well-practiced routine, there was a nagging twist in her gut that told her otherwise. Somehow she knew that had she been aloft, she would have spotted the pitted metal dug into stone, the hint of ropes secured to jagged outcroppings, the thin tip of a mast that rose level with the stone peak beside it, a schooner tucked into a shallow inlet, lying in wait. Though she had no proof of it, her heart knew that she would have sensed something wrong, just as she had in the Enchanted Forest. Perhaps it would not have been soon enough to stop the trap from springing entirely, but maybe a few precious moments could have been gained, enough time to prepare, to save lives.

Three of their men had been returned to the sea that day, their deaths repaid with blood and iron.

She needed the melody of the wind and ship to clear these thoughts from her mind, to sweep the faces of dead men and past shadows across the dark sea, to take them far away, even if it was only for the night. She needed to shed these demons that clung to her, because this night her mind was too full of other things, things that couldn't be stolen by some fleeting moment of peace beneath the moon, things that couldn't be lost to her within the heartbeat of the ship, or the sea, perhaps because in some way they were kin.

Things that she couldn't forget, couldn't stop seeing.

Things that were Hook's eyes as the corpse between them gargled its last breath, the hot spray of blood speckling both of their faces as they matched each other's intensity. She could have sworn that in that moment his eyes were a passage to the silent floor of the sea itself. He had stirred something within her that day, had awoken something unpredictable and needy, but he hadn't come to her since then, had hardly done more than bark orders and studiously avoid her, instead throwing himself into plotting their course for some island or another—but her skin was on fire with a need to be touched by something other than her own hands, and she couldn't help that it was his eyes she saw when she closed her own.

Her thoughts turned to the next time they would make port, to the thirst it seemed she would have to slake in the arms of a guileless farm boy if need be, Hook's orders to fill her pockets be damned. The rest of the crew was free to cheat and whore their way through the city, and she had proven time and again, at times on _his_ whim, that she was simply another member of the crew, a pirate as much as any of them. Was she not entitled to the same liberties?

It was just as her fingers wrapped around the ratlines, pulling her upwards toward the peace of the rigging, that she saw him, his silhouette black and dark against the clear, starry sky. His back was turned to her, and she took a moment to admire the play of the wind at his shirt, unencumbered as it was without the heavy drape of his long coat. He leaned forward against the railing, bowing his head and bringing his hand about to press against the back of his neck.

The action was unsettling, his demeanor so unlike the Captain that had burst from his cabin that morning in a storm of leather and glinting metal. His face had been shadowed with something vicious that sent the crew to scurrying from his path as he snarled orders, rapping the steel of his hook against whatever was available, whether it was wood or skull, when his demands were not quickly met. With as foul a mood as he had been in, Emma had been surprised to catch him watching her more than once, his features softened and distracted in a way she had only ever seen when they were alone, something slow and electric building in the distance between them, but the moment she dared swing her gaze to fully meet his own, his face closed to her and she was left staring at his back.

Her hands tightened on the rigging. It suddenly became perfectly clear that even if she chose to ease the ache of her body in the arms of someone else, it would still be his eyes she saw above her, his stubble she imagined reddening the skin of her breasts as he moved on top of her.

She didn't want a quick, satisfactory fuck with a stranger, she wanted _him_ —far too much to believe that using another would do anything to quell the burn beneath her skin, and when all was said and done, she _was_ a pirate. She would take what she wanted.

Her hands loosened and she dropped quietly back to the deck, her feet silent as she made her way toward the stern where he stood watching the rhythmic pull of the waters below. A tremor of anticipation traveled the length of her spine as she neared him, memories of the press of his body against her own conjuring images of what it would feel like to have him beneath her on the deck, the unforgiving rock of her knees against wood as he dug his fingers into her hip, his hook buried in the planks for leverage as he rutted up into her—but he didn't seem to be aware of her approach, or even the fact that he was no longer alone on deck.

His heedlessness was so unusual that it cut through the fog of lust surrounding her, the undercurrent of need racing through her veins shifting to concern. She had never seen Hook anything less than completely attentive to his surroundings, his body always on the edge of tension, innately prepared for the next move.

Her hand slid easily along the railing as she climbed towards him, and it was only when she was a mere arm's length behind him that he seemed to sense he was no longer alone, turning slowly and uncertainly because he hadn't actually _heard_ anything—he'd just felt her.

Any lingering need within her faded when she saw his face, his features open and clearly lit by the moon and stars. He was completely unarmed in that single moment, unguarded, his eyes wide and slightly confused—startled, even—lips parted and relaxed. There was a hopeful innocence lingering in the slight lift to his brows, yet a bone deep weariness that tread the corners of his eyes. In that instant, there was no pretense.

There was simply a man who hadn't yet chosen which mask to show the world.

She had seen the cold, deadly twist of his features as he danced through a swordfight, ripping and rending as he went—the mask of a killer. She had studied the charming veneer he wore when coaxing information from a drunken mark was more beneficial than simply torturing it from him—the mask of innocence. She had watched the easy smiles of practiced comradery he fell back on after a good haul—the mask of a friend, but now—now she was seeing the man beneath them all, and it shook her to her core, because for the briefest instant a memory flashed in her mind—her reflection in an ornate mirror so many years ago, green eyes wide and mouth hanging open slightly in surprise, her face devoid of practiced barricades—simply lost.

And in the few seconds she had before his face closed against her, she saw that same aching loss in him as well—a kindred spirit.

* * *

Hook's gaze was caught in the slumbering chaos of the sea, the feral strength of it beating a rhythm against his body as surely as it beat against the wood of his ship. His chest was pressed against the railing as waves lapped at the hull, icy flecks of spray catching on the wind and dotting his brow. He searched the shifting darkness below, but tonight there were no whispered words of peace among the unknowable fathoms.

He thoughts had been far too muddled for sleep, his heart fearing what slumber would bring and what the next dawn would reveal to him. He feared that he would wake once more with the sweet taste of another on his lips, a lass with golden tresses and the fierce heart of a pirate, but as much as that possibility alarmed him, even stronger was the fear of how deeply he craved it. He could not escape the discomfiting knowledge that his mind could so easily betray hundreds of years spent mourning his first love while he slept unaware.

Dragging himself from his cabin that morning had been an endeavor steeped in trepidation. He'd pulled his clothing on with trembling fingers, the lethal tip of his hook catching among the laces and buttons in ways he'd not suffered since the Crocodile first stole his hand. A deep swig of rum eased the tension and uncertainty creeping beneath his skin, and not bothering to wash the sleep or smudged kohl from his eyes, he'd swung his long coat over his shoulders to face the day—to face her.

As the leather settled over his back, for the first time in hundreds of years, he'd truly felt its weight.

He'd hoped to lose himself in the violent thrill of the sea breaking over the deck as he forced his ship and crew to their limits, the _Jolly_ surging forward into the waves. He needed to push the teasing remains of the dream from his mind, and he reveled in the scatter of men around him as they leapt at his bidding, perhaps sensing the madness that sometimes glinted in his eyes. Yet despite his desire to put behind him the cold realization of that morning, his eyes were drawn to her throughout the day, his gaze tracing the droplets of water that rounded the curve of her cheek and slid down her neck. His breath caught in his throat as he remembered the sweet taste of the valley between her breasts, and his fist clenched tightly on the helm as he recalled the night spent in the tavern, his hand journeying toward a different valley of her flesh, his fingers one aching caress away from where he was sure he would find her sopping wet.

_Gods he wanted her. He'd wanted her then, and he wanted her now._

He couldn't help that his gaze was drawn to her by some force he could neither make sense of nor command, as if the very air between them was a current slowly tugging his spirit from his body until he turned to look upon her. It did not escape his notice that Swan seemed to feel that same pull as well, her eyes always turning to find him a mere breath before he dropped gaze or turned away, unable to quell the thrill that she was as caught in whatever this was as he, but also terrified of what it meant.

It was that pull that finally drew his eyes from the black swirl of water below, the sensation that his breath was slowly being stolen away from him, his body turning instinctively even as his thoughts stayed trapped in the depths of his mind. Without thought he eased his frame from the railing and turned toward the bow, awareness slowly dragging its way through the fog of his thoughts as he tried to determine why he was suddenly faced with such a pressing need to move, to breath, to touch—

—and there she was, the golden, ephemeral thing that called to him, a slip of a dream come to haunt him during his restlessness.

His eyes hung on hers for a moment, his chest filling with the sharp chill of the sea as he breathed her in, as if somehow the world had slipped away from him hundreds of years ago, and he was only now returning to it. A heartbeat passed, the echo of it loud within his ears, and suddenly he realized that she was not some manifestation of his exhausted mind come to taunt him, but that she was actually _standing_ there, moonlight glancing off a disheveled crown of golden curls, as if she'd tossed in her sleep, her lips pursed as she watched him.

His chest clenched tightly, the rush of deep currents beneath the ship suddenly seeming far tamer than the panic rising in his gut. Coming back to himself, he silenced any inner turmoil with a familiar guise, his muscles easing as he leaned back against the railing, crossing his arms casually before his chest and eyeing her with mild interest, making certain that some of his weariness marked the off-kilter tilt of his lips as he smiled. He could only hope the riotous echo of his heart was not the betrayal it seemed.

"Swan, what are you doing on deck?" Is something amiss?"

He knew that Emma was far more perceptive than most of his crew, but was hoping that anything she may have seen written on his features would be dismissed as nothing more than a lack of rest, a weary captain seeking to pass the evening hours beneath the stars. It was not so far from the truth, save that she was the _cause_ of his foray on deck to search for some peace. It may have only been half a moment, but it felt like so much longer as he waited for her to somehow acknowledge his enquiry, to dispel the charged, expectant air between them with words of her own.

He watched carefully as Emma's shoulders dipped slightly, her lips relaxing and the tip of her tongue darting out to wet the soft, pink skin. She rolled her neck leisurely, stretching, and shifted lazily on her bare feet, the brief flicker of concern he had glimpsed seemingly gone. His heart settled its frantic pace.

"Not at all—at least as far as _I_ know," she quipped, glancing at him conspiratorially before stepping forward and taking a place beside him at the railing, her chest pressed snuggly against the bend of her arms as studied the sea below, her loose tumble of curls falling between them like a waterfall, "but I _did_ hear Maddock up and about a few hours ago—no promise as to what state the stores and galley will be in tomorrow."

"On a good day I'd say he's a growing lad in need of proper nourishment," Hook began, easily falling back into the role of captain as he took in the relaxed curve of her back over his shoulder, her face hidden from him, "but our stores are depleted enough as they are, so let's hope he's left more than hardtack and bones for mess tomorrow."

"Are the stores that low?"

"Aye. We didn't recover much from the hold on the schooner, but we'll make land in only a few more nights. I'll arrange a foray then."

Tired though he was, he spent far too long watching Swan to miss the change in her demeanor at his mention of the schooner—the vessel they'd ransacked and scuttled after dispatching its brazen crew among the stone spires. His eyes had been following the taut curve of her lower leg as he spoke, and it was easy enough to catch the slight flinch of her muscles as she stopped herself short of springing from her position against the railing, the play of discord continuing through the tightened arch of her back and brightening her knuckles as she dug her nails into the wood beneath her fingers.

Her reaction gave him pause, and he wondered briefly if it was memories of that day that plagued her dreams and compelled her to seek peace out here in the same manner he was. He turned his gaze from her, instead studying the damp stretch of planks extending out before him. He knew every inch of his ship as well as he knew the back of his own hand, at least the one he was left with, but in that moment he felt that he knew the woman next to him just as well, and he sensed her need for a minute of privacy to come back to herself.

It was her words that startled him from his thoughts. He'd kept his eyes carefully focused on the deck, waiting for her to return to what had been the start of a lighthearted conversation, though that didn't seem to be what she intended.

"Are you not sleeping well?" she asked, her voice nearly lost in the constant murmur of wind and wave.

He bit back a chuckle at the humor, unintentional though it was, of her question. Her words hung in the air between them, the simple candor of the question belying the weight it held, and it took him a few moments before he murmured a wordless agreement, somehow unable to pull his eyes from the deck to see if she was watching him, if she had tossed her swathe of golden curls over her shoulder, her knowing green eyes finally bared to him.

The silence returned, the narrow space between their shoulders seeming to yawn wider, eroded by wind and spray, by the sway of the ship and words unsaid. He should leave, was about to mumble something about updating the logs and escape to the solitude of his quarters—except that he knew he would not be alone even there, trapped as he was between the ghost of Milah and his longing for the woman beside him. It mattered not whether he fled to his cabin or stayed on deck, he would have to face her either way, though a small voice in his mind whispered that the pain of sleep, of dreams unfulfilled, of guilt would be far easier to bear than the silence growing between them as he stood there, waiting for her to say something—because for once he could not trust the words that may fly from his mouth.

"I often can't sleep myself, you know," she confided, and he heard her shift against the railing, sees the hint of movement from the corner of his eye.

"I know," he added, finally turning to face her, his blue eyes immediately seeking hers. He waved his hook unceremoniously in the direction of the mainmast. "I've seen you at night…in the rigging…"

His words faded into the night when he realized what he may have incidentally revealed with his cavalier statement, that she caught his eye more than any simple treasure could, that he'd watched her in those moments of solitude and envied the wind for how she sought it out as a companion.

There was a flash of something behind the lucid green of her eyes, a brief moment of satisfaction, perhaps, at his admittance. He could hardly suppress the thrill that surged through his chest at the thought that she _knew_ he watched her, and it pleased her, but it was short-lived, whatever thought had brought her that happiness fleeing, her eyes suddenly hollow.

"I have…nightmares," she continued, holding his gaze for only a second longer before dropping her eyes to her hands, leaving him to study the tense crease between her brows as she traced soothing circles along her palm.

He wanted to reassure her in some way, to soften the hard edges of her clenched jaw, but he understood better than most that nightmares were not silenced by kind thoughts and worthless platitudes. He _also_ understood that there was a reason Swan was standing beside him in these small hours of darkness, speaking of things that pained her. He would not trivialize this piece of herself she was choosing to share.

"Most nights I dream of the same thing, a memory, I think…I'm locked in a room. It's pitch black, and I can't even open my arms fully," she muttered, her gaze darting from her hands to the shadowed horizon as if to reassure herself that she was indeed not trapped. "I'm screaming to get out, banging on the door until I can feel something wet running down my hands, but whoever is out there, they just…they walk away. They leave me there."

Her words stirred a memory of his own, a nightmare upon waking, the room black and swaying with no hint of light, the darkness so complete he couldn't be sure he even existed within it—a terror welling up inside him that if he were to reach for his own face, he would feel nothing. He swallowed down the burgeoning pain brought on by the childhood memory, forcing himself back to the present, to Emma, to the achingly familiar longing he could see in her eyes.

"Other nights I dream of Columbine." She paused, a small, sad smile twisting her lips as she swept her gaze over the deck of the _Jolly_. "It's actually kind of funny, because if it weren't for her I wouldn't be here, and I…I really _like_ here. I'm glad I'm here, but I still wish she hadn't been just one more person to betray me…to do what she did…"

"What happened, Swan?" he asked, his voice far rougher than he expected, tinged with emotions he hadn't imagined would be dredged up this night.

Emma ducked her head slightly, her eyes meeting his only briefly before flickering toward the hatch, and he found himself suddenly reluctant to let her leave, to slip back into the empty space he had been in before she came to him.

"I'd love to know more about your beginnings," he whispered, hoping she would sense the honesty behind his words. He didn't understand why, but he _did_ want to know more of what had shaped Emma Swan into the cunning, tough lass that had stolen aboard his ship and invaded his dreams.

His words seemed to sway her, though he could sense still a lingering uneasiness in the tilt of her neck and the stiff set of her shoulders as she leaned back against the railing and continued her tale.

"I was young when I met her, Columbine—fifteen, maybe sixteen. She taught me how to live, how to survive on my own in the Enchanted Forest. We robbed caravans, lone travelers, supply wagons meant for the refugee settlements. Five years we lived together—and she taught me everything I know, how to fight, trick, steal—which plants to were safe to eat, and which were deadly…"

Her lips twitched at the same moment his did, and he wondered if she was recalling the night she set out to entrap a pirate captain, his hook pressed to her neck and her taunting words driving him back. He hoped that was the case, enjoying the thought that perhaps this memory shared only between the two of them was responsible for the way her bearing relaxed as she continued.

"I suppose you have _her_ to thank for turning me into the skilled thief I am today, Hook."

"Well, if I ever meet this Columbine, I shall do just that—or, if you'd rather, Swan—I could slit her throat."

His words were teasing on the surface, providing her with a lighthearted dismissal should she feel in need of it, but beneath his blithe, lilting tone and the boyish twist to his mouth lurked a cold certainty that should she wish it, he would love nothing more than to split the flesh of anyone's neck who should upset her—but she did not balk from the darkness seeping upward from his heart.

She turned to it and smiled, the action both hopeful and sorrowful, yet somehow perfectly lovely despite the lingering sadness.

"If we ever run into Columbine, I just might slit her throat myself."

"Quite the pirate, lass."

"Yes, I suppose I am," she agreed, eyeing him speculatively before turning her words back to the tale at hand. "We were watching a trail between camps. We'd overheard rumors of a well-stocked supply wagon that would be traveling through. It was a familiar routine, Columbine hiding in the brush at the edge of the trail—she was always far better at hand-to-hand combat than I was—while I took to the trees, dropping onto the wagon from above where I could get my dagger round the neck of the coachman. It was a ruse that worked well for us—until it didn't."

The words slipping from her mouth grew soft and melancholy, each one seeming to unearth a forgotten hurt that she couldn't bear to give voice to, and he shifted nearer to catch each word that was shared before the wind stole it from the space between them.

"We must have attracted too much notice in those parts—it was a trap. I had already dropped from my perch when I realized the wagon was empty, the cloth covering stretched too tightly, the wheels riding to easily over the rough ground. I managed to untangle myself before I was caught, and with everything moving so quickly I was halfway to escape before I realized I couldn't see Columbine, I couldn't hear her. In five years, we'd _always_ struck together—it was the only way we could gain the upper hand against groups. I knew that if I had dropped, then she had revealed herself as well. I turned back. I couldn't leave her if she were lying there, knocked out, waiting to be dragged back to the camps for execution. I had to _help_ her, Hook. She was my friend, the only family I had—I couldn't leave her."

Hook swallowed dryly, viciously closing his mind to the memories surging within him, instead narrowing his focus to Emma as she stood before him, her lips pressed in a grim line as she stared into the distance, perhaps seeing her own past ghosts play out their choices in the darkness.

"I dodged back through the men to reach where she had been hiding, but there was no sign of her. She hadn't been caught. It was only when I looked up that I saw her standing beneath the trees a good distance into the forest, completely safe with both of our packs over her shoulder. At that point she _had_ to have seen the men surrounding me—they'd been right behind me when I turned back for her, but she just…she said goodbye." Emma paused, meeting his eyes and pressing two fingers purposefully against her heart. "Like this. This was how we would say goodbye when we needed to part ways silently, and then she left. She let them knock me over the head and tie me up. She just left me behind. The worst part is, it wasn't even the first time I haven't meant enough, that I haven't been _worth_ saving. I've always been unwanted."

Despite the gentle pitch of the sea, the waves lapping against the hull, the wind darting between them—everything seemed so _still_ , as if the world were holding its breath and the sea was merely settling. Her last words left him speechless, because how could she not realize that she was exceptional, that she was worth something, that she was _wanted_ —how could she not know that those people who had hurt her couldn't possibly be anything other than cowards or complete imbeciles.

"Swan," he choked out, voice gravely, his hand rising to brush simply against her cheek, wanting to offer her some small comfort. In that moment his heart was full of her pain and abandonment, it weighed heavily beside his own. He was so swept up in her past that he'd forgotten the magic that seemed to writhe in the air between them, the lightning that sparked beneath his skin when they touched. His fingertips felt as if they had been dipped into molten gold, a fire that burned and soothed all at once.

"Until you," she whispered, the words almost seeming as unexpected to her as they did to him. "Until that night at the docks. I had a dagger at my neck and you had a letter in your coat, no reason to come back for me, and every reason to simply row back to the ship."

"Aye."

"Why?" she asked, taking a step toward him, her own hand rising to keep his fingers from slipping from her cheek, the space between them so narrow his breath stirred the small curls of golden hair at her forehead. "Why didn't you leave me there?"

"Because you _are_ worth fighting for, Swan," he said.

He had every intention of following that statement with another that was of equal truth _(because you're one hell of a thief, lass, and I'm not certain I could replace you)_ , though of less import to her question as her usefulness as a crew member hadn't _actually_ crossed his mind once when he made the decision not to betray her, but there was a desperate need in him to dispel the riot of emotions beating in his chest, each of them more than he had felt in hundreds of years, each of them threatening to rend flesh and bone to get to her. He needed to regain some scrap of the control that had kept him sane these past few centuries—but there she stood, as always, ruining all of his well-laid intentions.

Her green eyes were luminous beneath the dark sweep of her lashes as she looked up at him, the smooth arc of her collarbone peeking from her nightshirt, cheeks flushed over lips parted on a silent question. Her hand absentmindedly stroked his own, and though he had learned and mastered much during his drawn out existence, it was still a mystery to him how this woman could steal his breath from him with the way she moved, the rare jewel that was a smile on her lips, the way her eyes glimmered when he met her gaze, the way she simply _was—_ so when he opened his mouth to speak, it was nothing less than the thing he feared most that left his lips.

"Because I _wanted_ you, and gods help me, Emma, I don't know if I can stop."

There was nothing, and then there was everything.

Like a siren she was dragging him down, her lips firm and warm against his own as she knotted her hands in his shirt, crushing his chest against hers with a need that leaves him groaning against her, the soft warmth of her breasts driving the beast within him to a desperate place. His slides his arms instinctively around her body, his fingers tangling in her hair, cupping the back of her head roughly and forcing her mouth harder against his own, his teeth nipping her lips before soothing the bruised skin with a gentle sweep of his tongue. His brace is pressed against her backside, his hook tracing gently along the curve of her hip as he imagines the sinful things he'll do to her with it—the sinful things she'll _beg_ him to do. He winds her hair around his fingers and tugs her head back with a growl, dipping his head to sample the pale skin of her neck, his beard leaving a trail of redness as he climbs back to claim her lips. It pleases him to no end that she claims him with equal fervor, her fingers dragging along his chest and knotting in his charms. She delves into his mouth, her tongue and teeth working him into a frenzy, each movement between them rough and sweet and feral as they fall into one another on the deck. The pull between them is thrumming, so close to sated, yet still so demanding, and he wants nothing more than to spin her in his arms and bend her over the railing, to show her how much he wants her, how deeply she fills his thoughts, how incredible it will feel when he finally sinks into her, every part of her being calling out for him as she falls apart around him—but his eyes have been closed this whole time, and as Emma's hands make their way upwards to run through his hair, pulling him more deeply against her, her hips rolling wickedly against his throbbing length, his throat is suddenly caught with the sobering thought that when he opens his eyes, it won't be Emma he is with.

If he opens his eyes, it won't be hair the color of straw spun around his hand, but the dark locks of another. Instead of the lively green eyes he seeks, he'll see Milah's lost gaze… _and good gods, he can't even recall what color her eyes were._ The thought nearly kills him, that he cannot remember the color of his Milah's eyes, and even though he has a chance right now, a moment to find her again, to commit her to memory, he can't do it—not to Emma. It would be as much a betrayal as abandoning her at those docks would have been. He also realizes that he doesn't _want_ to lose Emma, to lose this memory of her, the feel of her in his arms—not even for Milah's ghost.

He pushes away from her embrace, wincing inwardly as he feels the loss of her warmth. Stepping back, he distances himself, his eyes still clenched tightly against seeing, wanting his body to settle, to pull back from the violent desire coursing through his veins. He can't open his eyes and _not_ see his Swan right now, somehow he knows he's just not strong enough. The world comes rushing back to him after a few ragged breaths, whether they are his own or Emma's he cannot tell, but suddenly there is the rhythmic lullaby of the sea beside him, the familiar creak of wood and ruffle of sails. His eyes are still pressed tightly closed, his fist clenched painfully at his side.

"Emma," he murmurs, not sure whether he's calling out to her, or calling her back to him.

There is nothing but the sea and wind, the soft voice of the ship beneath his feet. His heart slows and he listens for the hint of her breathing, the fall of her feet bare against the wood, but he hears nothing. _Ghosts make no sound_. The thought comes unbidden to him, and he opens his eyes, knowing that he simply has to take this chance, to see who is waiting for him.

His heart clenches tightly, and he's thinks it with both relief and loss.

There she stands, all golden curls, tossed and disheveled from his work amongst them, her brow furrowed over green eyes as she questions him with her gaze, her lips red and flushed, chest still heaving slightly. Seeing her like this, _knowing_ that he's done this to her, he thinks she's the most beautiful thing he's ever laid eyes on, worth more than any treasure, and he knows that if he allows it, she'll ruin him, ruin everything he's worked so hard for all these years.

His thoughts fly back to Milah, to the last words to leave her lips as she died in his arms, to that need he's lived off of for hundreds of years—vengeance.

"Hook, what are you…"

He doesn't know why it bothers him in this moment, her use of his moniker— _perhaps because you're looking for a reason to push her away—_ he's been Captain Hook for so long that none of his men have called him Jones for ages, and _he_ hasn't bothered to inform her, so it shouldn't bother him, but it does, and he hangs onto it, using it as a justification for what he's about to do. How could he push Milah aside, forget his promise to her for someone who doesn't even know his name?

 _Milah didn't know you either, not really_ , his conscience nags, but he ignores it, pushing forward with the thing he knows he has to say to her.

"I told you once, Swan—we all have a path, things that we must do…"

He can read her like an open book, and as soon as those words leave his lips he sees the understanding in her eyes—he also sees the hurt, the rejection, the confirmation that she's never _enough_ , and it kills him that he has to let her think that, because to tell her the truth, to tell her that he has to push her away because she _is_ enough, because she's more than enough, he can't do it and keep going.

"…and you can't ever let anything keep you from it," she whispers, the words an echo from all those weeks ago, a dying man hanging between them.

"Aye."

There is nothing between them now save for wind and darkness, but it feels as if there is far more separating them, a wound he does not know how to mend. No more words are said that night, and though he wants more than anything to press a kiss against her forehead before she leaves, he merely watches as she disappears below deck. He stares at the hatch for some time before turning back to the sea, though he knows any semblance of peace he may have found tonight has been shattered. His thoughts are wound in Emma, in Milah, in the years spreading behind him like a wake.

Ages stir and he treads their dark waters, remembering.


End file.
